


Wild, Wild World

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, Goldendoodles, Hand Jobs, Just a little political roleplaying, M/M, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Porn with Feelings, Roleplay, Stoned Sex, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 14:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13929258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: "One night is all we get, then we get to work," Lovett says, on the night of Trump's inauguration.Jon takes the night, and the one after, and the one after that.  He'll take every night - everything, really - that Lovett's willing to give him.





	Wild, Wild World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [savvygambols](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savvygambols/gifts).



> Thank you to savvygambols who bid on this fic for Fandom Trumps Hate 2018. You provided such a wonderful prompt and have been so lovely to work with - I really hope that you like this!
> 
> Title comes from [Warmth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYTV-N3v2gc) by Bastille:
> 
> _Nothing quite like seeing the world through the TV's we know_  
>  _Feeling helpless I look for distraction_  
>  _I go searching for you, wandering through our city to find some solace at your door_  
>  _I can't stop thinking about it_  
>  _Tell me did you see the news tonight_  
>  _Hold me in this wild, wild, world_  
>  _'Cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be_  
>  _And in your heat I feel how cold it can get_

Jon shakes his beer bottle. It's almost empty.

"You want another?" He asks as he stands, finishing off the dregs in the same motion. "I have more of the IPA, Tommy."

"Nah." Tommy drops his own empty bottle to the coffee table. "I should probably head back to the hotel. Hanna's sent me, like, ten texts in the last 15 minutes."

Lovett makes a whipping motion.

Tommy rolls his eyes without looking up from his phone. "You just wish you had someone to whip you into shape."

"Are you offering?"

Tommy seriously considers it for a moment, before shrugging. "In another timeline, maybe."

"Well, Dr. Jackson, I knew making you watch the Stargate film last night was a good idea," Lovett crows, gesturing wildly in his excitement. His beer spills over his wrist, and he frowns at it for a moment, before calling, "grab me one?" into the kitchen.

Jon smiles to himself as he digs into his fridge for the Blue Moons he always keeps in the back, just for Lovett. He opens two and carries them back into the living room just in time to watch Tommy press a sloppy kiss to the side of Lovett's head.

"Drink some water before you go to bed, yeah?" Tommy murmurs, as he lifts himself from the couch with considerable effort.

Lovett tilts his head back against the cushions, turning his neck so he can follow Tommy's motions. "There's a racist, narcissistic asshole in the White House. Probably, like, jerking off in the Lincoln Bedroom as we speak."

Tommy and Jon both scrunch their faces in disgust.

"Yeah, yeah, too far for me, too," Lovett agrees, waving them away. His wrist is still glistening with spilt beer. "My point is- I can do whatever the fuck I want tonight. Tomorrow, The Resistance starts."

"Fucking menace." Tommy shakes his head, turning to Jon. "You'll make sure he-?"

"Yeah." Jon smiles, pulling Tommy into a quick, one-armed hug. "Say 'hi' to Hanna for us."

"'Course." Tommy pauses in the doorway. "You know, I'm really glad we're doing this. It's- important. And there's no one else I'd rather be doing it with."

"Now who's drunk and maudlin?" Lovett asks, but he's working a bit harder than usual to keep his voice even.

Jon hands over Lovett's beer, so that he can hide his emotions in the bottle like the good, New England boy he was raised to be. "I'm glad we're doing this, too. Now, go, Tommy. Crooked Media will be here on Monday morning. We have a lot of work to do."

"Yeah, yeah." Tommy laughs and disappears down the hallway. 

Jon hears the front door close as he slides into Tommy's place on the couch. Lovett raises his head reluctantly, just long enough to let Jon in, then drops it back onto Jon's legs.

"I'm not kidding, you know? We have a lot of work ahead of us."

"Yeah." Lovett pulls himself onto his knees, turning around so he can look up at Jon. "But, we've always liked picking the good fight. We learned from the best."

"Yeah." Jon swallows. "What do you think he's thinking right now?"

"PODUS?" Lovett shrugs. "The same thing we are."

"And what's that?"

"We get one night to feel sorry for ourselves." Lovett takes a long drag from his beer and Jon watches the long, pale line of his neck as he swallows. "One night is all we get, then we get to work. Speaking of-" He pushes himself off the floor.

The couch dips as Leo hops off, tagging along behind Lovett hopefully. Pundit watches them go, then curls her body further over Jon's feet.

"Don't give him anything," Jon calls after them. "He's getting fat."

"He's not," Lovett calls back, over the rustling of the treat bag. "He's perfect just the way he is."

Jon lies back on the couch, dropping his arm over his eyes. "You get to take him to the vet next time, then. She acts like I'm feeding him whole sticks of butter or something."

"Mmm," Lovett hums from the kitchen.

"Wait." Jon freezes. "You don't actually feed him sticks of butter when you watch him, do you?"

"No, that would be ridiculous. But," the couch bows as Lovett and Leo both join him on it. "If he takes a few licks from the butter dish-" Lovett shrugs. Jon curls his knees inward, making a spot for Lovett by his hip. "Some vets just don't understand true beauty when they see it. Trump's president. Live and let live, I say."

Jon slides his arm up to his forehead so he can crack an eye open to glare at Lovett. "Drink and let drink, I see."

Lovett shrugs, and pours two generous servings of gin with a splash of tonic. The bottle is big enough that he has to use both hands. "Like I said, Trump's president. Cheers."

"Cheers," Jon agrees, raising himself onto one elbow and clinking Lovett's glass. "To The Resistance."

"To our new company."

"To Crooked Media."

Lovett grins, knocking back half his drink and already refilling his glass. "To Crooked Media." He leans sideways, resting his elbow on Jon's side and his head against the top of the couch cushions. His cheeks are flushed pink and his lips are a little wet with gin. "You know, what Tommy said- This, the next four years, this might be the most important thing we ever do."

Jon looks up at him, a lump the size of Jupiter in his throat, and all he can manage is, "yeah."

"And we worked in the White House." Lovett raises his eyebrows, waggling them suggestively, and Jon laughs, disentangling his legs so he can kick at Lovett's side.

It unbalances them, and Lovett lists forward. He catches himself on his hand before he crashes into Jon's chest, as half his drink splashes across Jon's sweater.

"Sorry, shit, I didn't-"

"Hey," Jon reaches up, his hand catching at Lovett's hip, "no big deal. What's a washing machine for, if not a few gin stains?"

"We should get a new sponsor. Tide, a better way to clean."

Jon puts on his best radio voice. "A better way to clean."

Lovett shakes his head, "fuck, you're-" and shifts above Jon. 

Jon feels a momentary stab of regret that this moment is going to pass. Regret that he ruined it, somehow, by forgetting to reign himself in, by being dad levels of cheesy, by using that stupid voice when voices have never come naturally to him, by- Fuck, it doesn't matter. Jon will just have to file this away with all the similar moments they've let pass them by over the decade of their friendship.

"-such a dork," Lovett finishes.

He's still grinning, so hard his eyes are just slits, and Jon wishes he could see them better. Lovett can lie and deflect and build walls with his words and his hands and his smile, but his eyes have always told Jon everything he needs to know. 

Lovett shrugs, and his body is still an impossibly warm, heavy weight above Jon's. "Seems fitting we'd be so monumentally stupid on the worst fucking night of our lives."

Jon blinks. He's still thinking about Lovett's eyes rather than his words, which- "What?"

Jon just has time to think _maybe I didn't ruin it after all_ before Lovett is kissing him and Jon's brain fizzles into a series of sensations. The brush of Lovett's curls, so soft against Jon's afternoon stubble. The smell of gin on Lovett's breath as Jon swallows it. The taste of mint and orange on his lips, and Jon makes an absent note to look up recipes because they're quickly becoming his favorite flavors.

He shifts, straightening his back against the couch and bending his knees so that Lovett slides firmly between them. Lovett groans, catching himself on his hands by Jon's head, his arms straining against the Henley he has pushed to his elbows. He's holding himself taut and wired, his muscles shaking with the effort. 

Jon reaches up, wrapping his hands around Lovett's biceps, pulling him close, willing him to let go. Lovett grunts, settling his weight against Jon's, using the new angle to push forward once, twice, between Jon's legs.

"Fuck," Jon groans, long and deep and embarrassing, and pulls Lovett in again.

Lovett kisses just like Jon thought he would, in those rare, private moments he'd let himself think about it over the years. Lovett's all-consuming, the way he moves against Jon, demanding every ounce of his attention. The noises he makes needy and warm as he pushes and pulls, his mouth fast and urgent, challenging Jon to keep up with him. In control, holding himself back, planning his strikes with eloquent precision, targeting Jon's weakest points.

Which, if Jon is honest with himself, is pretty fucking hot. 

If this is the only time he's ever going to have this, though, it's not what he wants.

He releases Lovett's arms and trails his fingers down Lovett's sides, just slow enough to have him squirming for more. When he gets to Lovett's hips, he slides his hands under Lovett's shirt and there's a shot of electricity as skin meets skin. Lovett sags against him, and Jon lets his brain short circuit for a moment, before he takes advantage of Lovett's softness, grasping Lovett's hips firmly and flipping them.

"So you do have a bit of Neanderthal in you. Not fair, hiding it all this time." Lovett's voice is pretty faint, and his touch is soft as he trails his hand down the pilled cotton of Jon's sweater. It's still soaked in gin, and Jon sits back on his heels, grabbing at the back of his collar and pulling it over his head.

Lovett's eyes slide into black, and Jon grins to himself, self-satisfied. 

He reaches for his undershirt, too, before Lovett stops him, his hand warm and damp and insistent against Jon's.

"Hey, hey," Lovett says, soft and gentle. "I- fuck, god knows I don't want to be doing this, but, I need to know you're sure?"

Jon shakes his head in amazement. "How are you still so fucking coherent?"

"Jon." Lovett closes his eyes, taking a deep breath that Jon watches from the concave of his stomach all the way through his Adam's apple and past his lips, red and swollen from kissing. From Jon kissing him. Fuck. "Jon, you're killing me."

Jon sighs, sitting back on his heels again and dropping his hands to his thighs. "Not nearly well enough," he mutters.

"Enough, trust me." Lovett pulls at the hem of his shirt, trying to hide the bulge in his maroon pants, which, if he wants Jon to be able to think, that's not really helping. "I just- if we go any further- If you're going to stop me- I just, I need you to do it now, because-"

"I'm not going to stop you."

"Because seriously, I'm all in on therapy sex, I really am, but I want to make sure that you are, too?"

Jon pulls Lovett's hand from the hem of his own shirt to rest against Jon's zipper, where his dick is pressing hard and painful against the metal. "I think I'm good."

Lovett laughs a little shakily, but he spreads his fingers along Jon's length.

Jon groans, falling forward, catching himself on his palms, hovering over Lovett. "So, we're good?"

"Fuck, yes, we're fucking good." Lovett lifts his hips and Jon closes his eyes. "Don't be a tease, asshole. Kiss me."

"You're a fucking monster," Jon whines, but he doesn't have it in him to deny Lovett anything when he's laid out under him like this, eyes dark and slitted under his eyelashes, teeth worrying at his lower lip.

This kiss is everything like their first kiss, except this time Jon feels it as Lovett lets go. Like, maybe, Lovett's as lost in this as Jon is. Like, maybe, all that exists for him right now is Jon's tongue against his, Jon's hand in his hair, Jon's thighs between his.

"I want," Lovett murmurs, pulling at Jon's mouth as his hands skid along Jon's waistband, pulling at his undershirt until he can grasp at the hem and pull it off. Jon lifts up just long enough to throw his shirt to the floor, then Lovett's hands are on him, warm and soft and demanding.

Next to them, Pundit shakes her head free of Jon's undershirt and rises onto her back legs so she can lick at Jon's bare shoulder.

"You," Jon says, turning his head towards her, "are a buzzkill."

Lovett buries his face in Jon's chest, his whole body shaking with laughter. "Don't yell at her."

"Nope, not doing this." Jon rolls his eyes. "I have a bedroom. With a door."

"Smartest idea you've ever had," Lovett says, as he scrambles off the couch, his knees and elbows knocking whatever breath Jon has left out of his chest. He scratches Pundit between her ears, and then leads the way to Jon's bedroom, pulling his own shirt over his head as he goes. "And you hired me, so, you had a high bar to clear." 

"You have an awfully high opinion of yourself," Jon mutters, gasping for breath as he closes his bedroom door and pushes Lovett up against it.

Lovett raises his knee, pressing his thigh between Jon's and rubbing it back and forth in slow, teasing circles. "Undeserved?"

Jon groans, dropping his mouth to Lovett's collarbone. "You know better than that."

"What I know," Lovett says, thoughtfully, turning his head to give Jon more room, "is that you're distinctly more verbal than you should be."

He flips open the button on Jon's pants, tracing his index finger along the smooth skin above his briefs. Jon's skin goosebumps and a thrill shivers through him. "Not for long," he promises.

"Stop," Lovett orders as he slides to his knees between Jon and the door, pulling Jon's pants and briefs with him, "talking."

"Fuck," Jon says, and then he doesn't have to obey Lovett's order, because he's physically incapable of doing otherwise. Not with Lovett on his knees, gazing up at Jon like he's everything Lovett wants in this exact moment. Not with Lovett softening his throat and taking Jon in, wasting only the time it takes for Jon to catch himself on the door, his fingers gauging into the wood.

Lovett, Jon has always thought, should come with a warning.

This, though- Jon has never let himself imagine what it would feel like to slide into Lovett's mouth. The way Lovett sinks down, all warmth and wetness. The way Lovett's tongue curls around the sensitive nerve on the underside of Jon's dick. The way he hollows his cheeks and sucks, hard, three times, taking Jon right to the edge before sitting back on his heels with a satisfied smirk.

Jon blinks down at him.

Lovett's grin grows. His lips are glistening.

"Fuck," Jon repeats, as he tries to say something, anything, with more substance, and settles on, "bed."

"Bed is good," Lovett agrees, voice steadier than Jon would like, but knees a little wobbly when he stands and follows Jon to the bed. "Second best idea you've had all night."

"I like you like this," Jon murmurs, as he pushes Lovett onto the mattress and reaches for his waistband. "All complimentary." Lovett's pants catch on the backs of his knees, and Jon urges him to lift up, just long enough to pull them down.

Lovett settles back on the bed, making a show of eyeing Jon from head to foot. He raises an eyebrow as Jon flushes all along Lovett's sightline. "For good reason."

Jon climbs onto the bed, his knees on either side of Lovett's hips. He hides his pleasure in the curve of Lovett's neck, tasting the salt on his skin as he gets his hand around both their dicks.

"Oh," Lovett let's out in a rush. "Yes, Jon, please, just- Yeah."

Jon grins, brushing his thumb over the head of Lovett's dick. He's already leaking, and Jon uses it to smooth his way. It's loud and slick, and Jon has to close his eyes, breathing wet and hot and ridiculous into Lovett's pale skin.

"I'm not gonna last," Lovett warns, as he lifts his knees, just enough for Jon to get a better angle. "I've been wanting- Feels like I've been on the edge for hours- Fuck," he trails off, his voice a ragged whine.

Jon's only just got his pants off, and the knowledge that Lovett's already needy like this goes straight down Jon's spine like lightning. He tightens his fist, grunting into Lovett's neck and thrusting his hips in rhythm with his hand. "Yeah, Jon, fucking come for me, come on."

"Oh, so you've been non-verbal for the last, like, 10 minutes, and now you find your voice," Lovett complains, but it's barely audible over his deep, heavy breathing. "God, harder, yeah."

Jon catches his thumb under the head of Lovett's dick, and Lovett curls forward, burying his forehead in Jon's collarbone as he comes, wet and messy, over Jon's fist. Jon eases him through it, until Lovett falls back against the pillows, breathing hard and slitting his eyes open, so dark and wide that Jon almost comes right there.

He waits, at least, until Lovett threads his fingers through Jon's and curls them both around Jon's dick, messy and wet. It doesn't take more than two thrusts, though, before Jon's spilling across both their chests.

Jon cleans his hand on the edge of the sheet, then falls to the bed at Lovett's side.

Lovett grunts, pulling at the comfortable and scooting both his legs under the warmth of the blankets. Jon takes a moment to just look at his warm, sated mass under the comforter and regret not spending more time just looking at Lovett, taking him in while he's flushed and warm and naked, before he throws an arm over Lovett's chest and let's sleep pull him under.

***

Jon wakes with Lovett's alarm, just as the last of the sun is disappearing and the headache is settling into his skull.

He keeps his eyes closed until he hears the shower turn off, then rolls onto his side. "What time is it?"

"Almost 6." Lovett's voice is rough around the edges, and Jon tries not to think about the role he played in that. Under the sheets, his dick twitches valiantly against his thigh. "My flight leaves in a couple of hours."

Jon rubs at the bridge of his nose, forcing his eyes open. He's still feeling foggy from the gin and the Inauguration hangover, and he watches Lovett drop his towel - one of the big, fluffy blue ones Jon's mom bought him as a housewarming present - and hop, uncoordinatedly, into a pair of sweatpants. Jon has the stupid, momentary, emotionally suicidal notion to ask him to stay.

He sits up, letting the sheet pool around his waist. "You okay to drive?"

Lovett pulls a shirt over his head. It's a little loose around his shoulders. "I called a Lyft."

"Good."

Lovett shifts a little in place, before straightening his shoulders, grabbing his sneakers, and sitting on the edge of the mattress by Jon's hips. His feet are bare and pale in the dim light, and Jon realizes, with a start, that after over ten years of friendship, this is a Lovett he's never seen before. His curls wet around his ears, toes stubby and intimate, posture soft and unsure.

Two new Lovetts - one mind-blowingly sexy and the other so soft and warm - in the span of a few hours.

Jon is so fucked.

"I'm sorry I'm not going with you," he says, stupidly, before he can get control of his mouth.

Lovett laughs, loud in the early evening quiet of the first day of the end of the world. "No need for all of the founders to be exhausted for the Monday pod. Someone's gonna need to reign me in when I can't remember the difference between Congress and the Russian Council of Ministers."

"A job I accept willingly."

Lovett's phone buzzes on the bedside table. Jon's bedside table. Lovett answers it one-handed, as he finishes pulling on his left shoe with the other. "You here? Yeah, yeah, I'll be right out."

He lifts his hip so he can shove his phone into his back pocket.

Jon clears his throat. "You'll text from DC?"

"From the airport, probably." Lovett slaps his hands on his knees and uses them as leverage to get up. 

He pauses at the door and, for a moment, Jon thinks he's as unsure about how to handle this as Jon is. But then he's opening the door and squatting down so he can pull Pundit into his arms. Leo sits up, too, and lavishes Lovett's wrists with kisses.

From Lovett's back pocket, his phone rings again. "Shit. I really gotta go," he says, without answering it, burying his face in Pundit's neck for a long moment. 

Jon's stomach flips.

"Be good for Jon, yeah?" Lovett orders, then pushes Pundit away, and is gone down the hallway. 

Jon listens to the opening and closing clicks of the front door, before patting the bed beside him. "Come on, monsters."

Pundit circles twice, then curls with her head on his chest. 

Leo stands by the side of the bed for a long, accusatory moment at the indignity of being locked out for the past few hours.

"I know, buddy, I'm sorry, but this was really important to daddy. Thank you, for being patient."

Leo huffs, but he does jump up and curl himself into the crook of Jon's knees.

Jon sighs, and lets himself drift back to sleep.

***

Pundit wakes Jon from a restless sleep early Monday morning.

"Okay, okay," he grumbles at her, but is, in fact, pretty grateful for the excuse to stop tossing and turning.

He snaps their leashes into place and lets them lead him into the breezy morning chill. Jon slides his hands into the pockets of his North Face, letting the leashes dangle from his wrists, as Pundit sniffs around a cactus at least ten times bigger than she is.

"That's a fight you're gonna lose," he tells her, but pulls out his phone to snap a picture. The sun is rising behind her, painting her in shades of orange and red. He sends it to Lovett with the caption, _your dog has as many self-preservation instincts as you do_.

 _like father, like daughter_ , Lovett texts back, almost immediately. It's followed quickly by, _just landed, calling a lyft_.

A spike of warmth spreads through Jon's body, teetering somewhere between anticipation and naked panic.

If Jon's really honest with himself, though, he's been perched on the edge of this same cliff since Lovett left 48 hours ago.

Leo whines, rising onto his back legs to push at Jon's thigh. Jon laughs, reaching down to ruffle his head, "yeah, I know, I'm falling down the rabbit hole again." 

He pulls on Pundit's leash, dragging her away from the cactus. She trots over to them. Leo sniffs at her to make sure she doesn't have any needles in her fur, then lets her lead the way.

Like father, like son. Fuck.

What's so fucking ironic, though, is that these are the moments Jon used to dream about when he was working at the White House. Embroiled in the rat race, shivering in the cold, always tired and stressed and rung so tight that someone could have squeezed it out of him if they'd tried. Which- Lovett tried. More often than not, Lovett succeeded.

Jon still remembers the first time he thought about it. Just days after the 2008 Democratic Convention, with a stack of CVs three feet tall perched precariously on his desk and only one that really mattered. Jon was less than halfway through Lovett's writing sample when he realized he hadn't stopped grinning for half an hour, Lovett's humor buried deep in his chest and Lovett's intelligence settling, hard and heavy, between Jon's thighs.

He remembers Tommy perched on the edge of his desk, asking, "wanna share the joke?"

He remembers crossing his legs under his desk, his cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment, as he handed the folder over. "Call this one. He's the guy."

Tommy had frowned at the stack of identical folders, still untouched. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Jon had insisted. "He's the guy."

Lovett's always been the guy.

Lovett stood at his side, never failing to make him laugh, never failing to pull him out of the hole, through the first 100 days and the ACA fight and Benghazi. 

During those interminable, awful months when Jon was losing himself in Washington, Lovett was the voice in his phone and the friendly face waiting at LAX, challenging him, pushing him, believing - even when Jon didn't, when he couldn't - that Jon was more than President Obama's chief speechwriter. 

And when Trump was elected President and all of Jon's faith in the American people and blind belief in democratic institutions came crashing down, Lovett bit his bottom lip and cautiously offered Jon a second chance to do something that really matters.

When Jon looks at it now, it's so clear and obvious that it's always been Lovett. Not in any concrete, formalized way, and certainly never carnally. Or, at least, only during those odd and fairly rare moments between girlfriends when he'd let his mind wonder as he wrapped his fingers around his dick, fantastical and impossible.

Except, now his most platonically passionate relationship has been made manifest and the things running through Jon's mind are neither fantastical nor impossible. 

Jon still has no idea what that means, for him or for them. No idea beyond rising long before sunrise to walk Lovett's dog and keep her out of harmful reach of cacti, both things he was ready and willing to do long before he knew what it felt like to have Lovett's mouth on his dick.

About half a block from his house, Pundit pulls him out of his thoughts. She whines and starts pulling hard on her leash.

Squinting his eyes, he can just make out Lovett's shape, still bundled in his winter jacket from DC, on his doorstep.

Pundit barks.

Jon's heart beats high in his throat. He's pretty sure that he'd be barking, too, if that was something socially acceptable for him to do.

He reaches down to let Pundit off her leash and watches jealously as she runs up the driveway and straight into Lovett's arms.

"You know," Lovett calls across the yard. Jon's neighbors are gonna hate him even more than they already do. "It's not safe to leave your front door unlocked. I know Boston is, like, idyllic or whatever, but didn't DC teach you any survivor instincts?"

Despite himself, Jon laughs. "Welcome home. How was your trip?"

"Amazing." Lovett grins between Pundit's ears. "The Women's March was incredible. Dan is great. He says 'hi,' by the way."

"One day in DC and you're already starting to use Trumpian superlatives." Jon sighs as heavily as he can, shaking his head in faux dismay.

"I'm saving the really good stuff for the pod," Lovett protests, already pushing his way into the house. "I smell like plane, so I'm gonna take a shower, then we can record. And just for that comment, I'm gonna use the really good shampoo. The shit you pay $40 dollars for."

"Sure," Jon agrees, trying not to think about Lovett naked in his shower.

Lovett starts walking backwards down the hall, the same hall he stripped in just 48 hours before. "And Postmates some breakfast burritos. I'm starving. Protesting is hard work."

"Sure," Jon deadpans. "I'll start you a tab."

Lovett waves him away, "use the cash app," and disappears into Jon's bedroom.

Jon allows himself two minutes to stare at the partially-opened door as he wraps his head around the normalcy of the morning.

Then he reaches for his phone and opens the Postmates app.

***

"Hey Jon."

Jon holds the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can fill his water glass. "Hey Dan. How are things?"

"Mmm, personally or politically?" Dan laughs. "Wait, it doesn't matter. My answer's the same either way. I'm exhausted."

"Yeah, I hear that."

"Remember the closet I kept in my office in the West Wing? Full of clean shirts and underwear and different colored ties, so I could pretend I'd gone home the night before?"

"I took advantage of that closet a few times."

"We all did." Dan clears his throat. "I'm more exhausted than I was then. You know why?"

"Because people keep asking how you are?" Jon chuckles. In some ways, talking to Dan is nothing like talking with Tommy and Lovett. It's darker, more muted, harder to stay optimistic. But it scratches something deep in Jon, something he so rarely lets the others see, something just as dark and fearful at the back of his own mind, and it's refreshing to hear Dan voice it. Calling Dan is, often, the most comforting thing he can do on the worst of days. "Present company included."

"Well, that, too," Dan agrees. "But it's more the 'is everything going to be fine?' question, because it's not like they really want an answer. They want me to say 'yes, of course it's going to be fine,' followed by a 10 point plan the Democrats have to see this through. We don't have a 10-point plan, do we?"

"Point one is to elect a DNC chair. Then, maybe, we can get going on the other 9."

"Good to see we're on track for a landslide victory in the 2026 midterms."

"Take back the House. In 2026," Jon intones. "Oh, wait."

"Yeah, LA's going to be in the ocean by then. San Francisco too, probably. I have no faith that Trump and his goons can keep us alive until 2026."

"Realistic. Smart choice."

"The state of our country, Jesus."

"The state of the presidency," Jon corrects. "I'm feeling pretty good about The Resistance. Lovett said you were pretty upbeat in DC?"

"Ahh, yeah." Dan pauses. "It was good. The atmosphere was good. I hung out with Alyssa and Lovett and some of our career politician friends. They're, you know, pretty fucking worried."

"I can imagine."

"But, overall, it was good. The March had great energy. I'm not as optimistic as Lovett is about the whole thing, but-"

"I'd never expect otherwise."

" - I'm never as upbeat about anything as Lovett is," Dan finishes, "and he seemed even more amped than usual."

"Yeah," Jon swallows. He's not sure if it's a question, or if Dan is trying to tell him something, but that would mean that Lovett said something, which is fucking ridiculous. Jon clears his throat. "It was a long week, you know. Talking to PODUS, then Inauguration, then the March - we're all a little on edge here at Crooked HQ. Aka my living room."

Dan laughs. "I was gonna say- it sounds pretty quiet over there?"

"Tommy and Lovett are out drumming up ad revenue, so it's just me and the dogs."

"Ahh, that explains it." Dan chuckles. "So, wanna start recording before they get home?"

"Yep." Jon takes a seat at the kitchen table and pulls his computer towards him. "Pulling up the outline now."

***

The travel ban comes down mid-afternoon.

Jon watches the news for 45 straight minutes while screaming into their Crooked Founders' WhatsApp group. Then he pulls out his digital rolodex and gets on the phone.

Tommy, more usefully, starts working his foreign policy contacts.

Lovett, less usefully than Tommy but probably more usefully than Jon, drops Pundit off at Jon's and heads to LAX.

"Yes, Congressman, I understand." Jon looks down at the Evernote open on his laptop. It's the outline for the Monday pod, and it's empty except for 'MUSLIM BAN. FUCK.' 

His phone buzzes. Jon tries not to rush the end of the call - "I really appreciate you talking with me, and I'll call your communications officer to set up an interview for the Pod" - but he's not sure he's successful.

 _protest really is the new brunch_ , Lovett sends, accompanied by a picture of the crowds at LAX.

A few minutes later, he sends _i should be our chief content officer_ , moments before Jon gets the Twitter notification that Lovett's gone live on Periscope.

He grins to himself, even as Tommy sends back, _YOU'RE OUT OF CONTROL_.

Jon sort of wishes that he'd gone to the airport with Lovett, but he understands what role each of them has to play here. Lovett's definitely in charge of outreach, and for sure none of them - all three white, privileged, moneyed bros - are in charge of content for their fledgling progressive media empire.

It takes him two tries, but he finally sends back _still think Tanya is our target, but you'll do until we make enough $$ to steal her away_.

Lovett sends back a sad face emoji, followed by a picture of his middle finger against an American flag background.

Jon chuckles and dials the next number in his digital rolodex.

Word out of Washington isn't good, but the word out of the airports is inspiring. Lawyers lining up, pro bono, and hundreds of thousands of protesters flooding LAX and Logan and JFK. Like protesting really has become the new Saturday night activity. 

Selfishly, the outline is starting to take shape.

Long after the sun has set, Dan sends a video of a band playing at the International Terminal with a joke - _move over discos, millennials have found a club that doesn't charge a cover_ \- that causes Jon to spit out his beer.

Pundit and Leo stop wrestling to check out the commotion. Jon bounces his leg restlessly and pushes back from the table. Pundit wags her tail hopefully and Leo gathers his ball between his teeth.

Jon laughs to himself. "Yeah, yeah, message received. I could use a walk, too."

He clips them into their leashes and leads the way outside, typing back to Dan with one hand.

_the only entrance fee is our values, dignity, and international reputation_

He can hear Dan's laughter all the way from San Francisco. 

Leo stops to dig a ball out from under a neighbor's tree, and Jon turns his emotional state over to Twitter. Which, generally, is a pretty terrible idea. But his body is thrumming with all the excess adrenaline and righteous anger he had to keep bottled up during his professional calls, and he can't think of a better way to release it than by arguing about religious freedom and the First Amendment in 180 characters.

He's halfway through a fight with an immigration hardliner in the justice department, contemplating a second, longer loop up Sunset, when they finish the neighborhood loop. 

He looks up from his phone, and stops.

The lights are on in Lovett's house.

His body thrums in an entirely different way. It's a terrible idea, of course it's a terrible idea, but if all that comes from it is an argument with an actual intelligent person, in flesh and blood and blotchy, angry cheeks, well- it's a deal Jon's willing to make.

Jon sends his tweet, then pockets his phone.

Lovett answers the door in socks and sweatpants. His hair is wet and curling around his ears and he's still fiddling with his shirt. Jon gets a momentary, tantalizing view of his love handles before Lovett pulls the shirt into place.

"You should really stop arguing with idiots on the Internet," Lovett chastises as he bends down to pull Pundit into his arms. "Hey, Angel. Were you good?"

Jon shrugs. "She was a little restless."

Lovett eyes him from head to toe. "Stop projecting on my dog."

Jon rolls his eyes. "Don't you have some alcohol to offer me? It's been a long fucking day."

Lovett's foot catches, but he recovers quickly, turning on his heel and heading into the family room. Leo races in front so he can claim the dog bed in front of the electronic fireplace. Lovett turns it on for him, before depositing Pundit on the couch and heading through the open floorplan to the kitchen. 

Jon closes the front door and slides onto a stool at Lovett's kitchen island. "I'm not gonna lie, I wish I had gone with you."

Lovett's back is to Jon, his sweatpants pulling over his ass in all the right places and the back of his neck flushing in pleasure.

Jon adjusts his jeans, pulling his stool a little further under the edge of the table.

"We all have our crosses to bare for this toddler of a media company." Lovett pulls a bottle of Rosé out of the fridge, and grabs two glasses on his way to Jon. He hops onto the island next to him, crossing his ankles and letting his legs swing as he fills the glasses. "To the First Amendment. Winning again, against the greatest threat our nation has ever faced."

"Not, you know, considering World War II. Or Watergate. Or Joseph McCarthy."

Lovett turns his head thoughtfully, his curls falling across his forehead. "Do you think- I mean, if we had another McCarthy today, would we get called to the courtroom?"

"For our podcast?" Jon asks, skeptically.

Lovett kicks at his thigh, then leaves his foot on the edge of the stool, toes burrowing under Jon's leg. "For our progressive podcast juggernaut." He shakes his head. "Honestly, I wouldn't even know you're a founder. It's like you don't care about our baby at all."

"All this because I don't want you to stand in front the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations and deny who you are?"

Lovett holds out his wine glass, pinkie up, and adopts his best 1950s Hollywood accent. "I apologize, dear Senators, Congressmen, Congresswomen, Congress-gender-nonconforming-people, but I must confess that I did write that tweet and I do stand behind it. Marcus Rubenstein - oh," he covers his mouth, "did I say that? My bad. Marco Rubio is a caricature of a useful politician."

Jon swirls his wine in his glass, glancing up at Lovett through his eyelashes and dropping his voice in a pitiful McCarthy impression. "Yes, Mr. Lovett, your thoughts on Senator Rubio are part of the public record. What I'm more interested in, as a God-fearing, teetotaling Patriot, are your comments about our fearless leader from Wisconsin."

"Oh, drat, did you overhear that?" Lovett's cheeks flush, from the wine or the act, Jon isn't sure. "I am under oath, so I must tell you that, yes, it's true. I did say, once, that the only thing that can get him hard are tax cuts for the rich. But I don't think that's cause for such ridicule, no? We all love what we love, and who am I to lay judgement on his paraphilia?"

"Are you saying, Mr. Lovett," Jon pushes his stool back, moving to stand between Lovett's legs, "that you have entertained impure thoughts about Speaker Ryan?"

Lovett's face twists. "Of course not, your honor. I would never presume- he would never be interested in someone like me." He raises his hand to his chest, brushing against Jon's on the way, and Jon sucks in a breath. "A Jewish sodomite from Long Island."

"If not Speaker Ryan, then others?" Jon pushes closer, resting his hand on the counter by Lovett's hip. Lovett hooks his ankle around Jon's thigh. "The Court would like to know. And, please remember, Mr. Lovett, that you are under oath."

Lovett bats his eyelashes, moving his hand to Jon's breast. "You would like to know, wouldn't you? Your honor."

Lovett's thumb catches against Jon's nipple, and Jon gasps. "I really would." He drops his voice, slipping out of his accent. "Can I?"

"Yes," Lovett breathes. "Please."

In this position, Lovett is a little bit taller than him, and he tilts his chin up to close the last few inches between them. Lovett moans into his mouth, arching his hips and digging his heel into the back of Jon's thigh, pulling him closer, closer, closer. Jon adjusts so he's not pressing into the edge of the counter, lifting onto his toes a bit and bringing their erections into sharp contrast.

"Oh." Lovett arches his back, ripping his mouth away so he can breathe. The fluorescent lights are doing nothing to disguise how pale his neck is, even after living in Southern California for nearly half a decade. Jon's hips stutter, and Lovett grins, meeting his rhythm and pushing it further. "My, my, your honor, what a big dick you have."

"This," Jon coughs, finding the accent again, "is quite unprecedented. And it won't get you a more lenient sentence."

"I would never presume," Lovett presses his mouth to Jon's ear. "But if you were to find just a little compassion for a poor soul such as mine-"

Jon laughs, making sure to keep it deep in his chest and in-character. "This innocent act is really doing nothing for you."

"Oh?" Lovett drops his hand, wrapping his fingers between Jon's legs. "Feels like it's doing a little something for me."

Jon sucks in a breath. "I've read your Twitter account, Mr. Lovett. You can't fool me." He reaches for the hem of Lovett's shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it across the kitchen.

The first time they did this, Jon didn't take the time to really look at Lovett, and he's been bemoaning that in the weeks since. So, he takes his time, kissing and touching every inch of Lovett's shower-slick skin that he can reach.

Lovett groans, leaning back and catching his weight on his hands, using the leverage to press into Jon's hands. His chest is wide and strong, but it feels warm and soft under Jon's touch. Lovett is the most complex man Jon has ever met, and Jon can't get enough of this, his contradictions made manifest in the push and pull of his skin.

"Please, your honor." Lovett flattens his free foot against the side of the counter, using the leverage to rub his dick against Jon's abdomen. "I've been thinking about you all afternoon and I can't wait much longer."

Jon bites back every instinct to ask whether Lovett's speaking for himself, too, or just for his character. He covers it by dropping his hands lower, teasing along Lovett's waistband and slipping a couple fingers inside. "You were thinking about this while I was questioning you on the stand?" Lovett's breath catches, and he nods. "That, Mr. Lovett, is extraordinarily unprofessional. I'm afraid I'll have to include it in my final report."

His thumb brushes against the head of Lovett's dick.

"Fuck." Lovett drops out of character, then bites at his bottom lip and raises his voice a few octaves again. "I mean, please, sir, I just couldn't help myself. I have this- thing, for powerful men and you, sir," he shifts his weight to so he can run one hand up Jon's arm, "are the most powerful of men. The way you wield that gavel," he shakes his head, "I can't be responsible for my actions."

Jon wraps his hands more tightly around Lovett's waistband, helping him lift his hips to that Jon call pull off his sweatpants and briefs. Lovett's dick bounces against the curve of his thigh, already hard and leaking steadily. "Wow," Jon murmurs, no longer sure if it's coming from his character or from him. "I really am having an effect on you."

"Yeah," Lovett breathes out, and Jon can't tell if he's still in character, either. "Stop being so fucking smug and touch me."

"Yeah." Jon wraps Lovett in his fist, feeling him jump and harden impossibly further. "Yeah, okay, okay, I've got you."

Jon bends at the waist so he can take the tip of Lovett's dick between his lips. Lovett whimpers, his hips stuttering against the counter and his hands twisting into Jon's hair.

Jon did this once. In college, after a long night out with his freshman roommate. It had been sloppy and over before Jon even realized that Jason was in his mouth, fucking his face with the abandon of an eighteen-year-old hanging right on the edge. They had never talked about it again.

Jon takes a moment to wish that he had learned at least some technique that day. Lovett is experienced and critical and beautiful, and he deserves more than Jon's second, fumbling time through this.

But Lovett is tugging at Jon's scalp, his thighs shaking around Jon's head, like, maybe, he's getting as much out of Jon as Jon is getting out of him. 

So, Jon follows his lead. When Lovett's hips stutter up, Jon softens his throat and takes him deeper. When Lovett brushes his fingers over Jon's ear, Jon lifts up, circling the head with his tongue. When Lovett groans out a steady stream of "Jon" and "Jesus" and "fuck, yes, right there, harder, fuck, Jon, your mouth," Jon wraps his first around the base of Lovett's dick and moves his neck in a fast, punishing rhythm.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna," Lovett tugs at Jon's head, his knees pulling upwards. "Jon, seriously, I can't- fuck."

Jon sucks in his cheeks, and Lovett comes, thick and long and loud on Jon's tongue.

"Fuck, Jon." His breath is ragged and he's almost bent double as he rests his elbows on Jon's back, struggling to regain himself. "Just, let me-" He chuckles. "If I could get my fucking legs to work again. You've, like, broken me."

Jon laughs. "I'm good, you don't-"

Lovett rolls his eyes, pushing Jon back a few inches so he can hop off the counter and sink to his knees, his body still loose and easy.

Jon breathes through his nose as Lovett undoes his belt and draws his pants down to his knees. "My, my," Lovett glances up, blinking his eyelashes rapidly in what Jon assumes he thinks is coquettish, "your honor, you are happy to see me."

Jon laughs, despite himself. "All part of a hard day's work, Mr. Lovett." He tries for disinterest, but his voice cracks on 'hard.'

Lovett hums, rising, a little, off his heels so he can pull Jon into his mouth. He's just as hot and wet as Jon remembers, and Jon catches himself with one, white-knuckled hand on the edge of the counter, and the other twisting into Lovett's curls.

Lovett loosens his throat, breathing through his nose as he pulls Jon further and further in. Jon twitches in Lovett's throat, trying to hold on, wanting this to last forever. But Lovett is swallowing around him, waves of heat and pressure, and long before he's ready, Jon is calling out Lovett's name and coming.

Lovett eases Jon through it, then sits back on his heels. His curls are wild and twisted around his ears, where Jon's fingers have disheveled him. His mouth is red and swollen, a little wet at the corners. "So, your honor, was that enough to commune my sentence?"

"Fuck." Jon drops his head to the counter, adding, "Mr. Lovett," long after he should have, to stay in character.

Lovett pats Jon's bare hip, using the leverage to pull himself up. "I say we take a shower. Give you some time to think about it."

Jon laughs, lifting his head and pulling Lovett closer. "Shower with me," he says, as he drops his mouth to Lovett's, "and I just might - might - think about communing your sentence."

"Oh, sir, you say the sweetest things," Lovett laughs. He grabs Jon's hand, pulling him down the hallway.

***

Tommy flies down to LA for a week in early February. Ostensibly it's to help build their media company, but it's really to watch the Super Bowl at Jon's parents' place and to find a house for himself and Hanna.

"I liked the one with the blue shutters," Tommy says idly, as Lovett returns to the table with three gin and tonics perched precariously between his hands.

"Shutters can be painted." Lovett rolls his eyes as he slides into the booth next to Jon, slipping his leg under him and knocking his shoe against Jon's thigh. "Maybe you should focus on more important things."

He pushes Tommy's glass across the table, only spilling a little in the process. He cleans the gin off his fingers with quick, efficient swipes of tongue. It's only their second round, but Jon can't look away from his tongue or the way he moves his hands, afterwards, to punctuate his points.

Just a few weeks ago, Jon had convinced himself that their one-night stand was the worst possible iteration of their relationship. It wasn't. The second time- fuck, the second time was so much worse. When it was just the once, he could convince himself that it was a mistake, a one-time deal sponsored by Trump's assholery, a perfect alignment of resistance and helplessness that they'd never reach again. 

Now, though- now he knows that it wasn't some mystical alignment in the stars. It can happen again, and, if he's extremely lucky, again and again and again. He can't stop himself from hoping, every fucking night after they finished work over the past few weeks, that Lovett will stay and pull out a shot glass, rather than gather Pundit up and head across the street.

Lovett lifts his hips so he can lean further across the table, digging his foot harder into Jon's thigh.

Jon's dick twitches and he presses his leg closer.

Tommy kicks Jon's shin and gives him a confused frown, before turning to Lovett. "What kinds of important things?"

Jon shakes his head, trying to school his features into indifference as Lovett takes a long sip of his drink, then motions dramatically with his hands. "Like, I don't know, a porch. Dormer windows, if that's your thing. A backyard for the dog we all know you're going to get."

"We're not ready for a dog."

"Whatever." Lovett waves him away. "Say what you will, but a puppy Vietor is on its way, sooner rather than later. Prepare for the future, Tommy. That's the kind of sound financial advice you give me, whether I ask for it or not."

Tommy chuckles. "You're impossible, but I've missed you."

"And that-" Lovett says, rounding on Jon and motioning between them. For one terrifying moment, Jon thinks he's going to spill everything, but all Lovett does is press a somewhat unsteady hand to Jon's shoulder. "-is also a good point. The most important factor in all this house hunting is that you be close to your best friends."

"Maybe," Tommy says, slowly, gaze fixed on Jon as he takes a slow, careful sip of his drink, "I'm not as codependent as you assholes."

Lovett scoffs. "You wish you were this codependent."

Jon chokes on his drink. "Don't think that's what you were really going for."

"Whatever." Lovett shifts, pulling both his feet under him and leaning sideways into Jon's shoulder. "Point is, you're moving to LA and it takes, like, three fucking hours to cross the 405, so you might wanna live close to your friends and your office. Which, coincidence, are one and the same space. For the moment."

"And," Jon puts a steadying hand on Lovett's knee, "even when we finally move out of my fucking living room and into a real, honest-to-god office space, it'll be close by."

"Or," Tommy tries, "it could be somewhere halfway between WeHo and this beautiful house with the blue shutters."

Jon snorts, "not likely," at the same time as Lovett exclaims, "for fucks sake, Tommy, Jon and I will personally paint the shutters of whatever house you want blue. As long as it's in West Hollywood." 

Tommy sighs, closing the manila folder in front of him and tipping back the rest of his drink. "I guess we need to go back to the drawing board. The Real Estate agent is gonna be so pissed. Anyway, anyone need another one?"

Both Jon and Lovett nod. Tommy slips off the bench, and they're left alone in the booth.

"Hey," Lovett says, dropping his voice a couple of decimals and leaning close enough that Jon can smell the gin on his breath.

"Hey," Jon murmurs. He squeezes Lovett's knee. "Can you, like, take it down to a 7? You're killing me tonight."

"Oh?" Lovett turns in his seat, draping his legs over Jon's knees, which is definitely the opposite of what Jon was asking for. He drops his hand into Jon's lap and squeezes. "Oh. You're not kidding."

"No," Jon grits his teeth to hold back a groan. "I'm really not."

"That's-" Lovett swallows, and Jon watches his throat in the dim light. "That's a lot to process."

"Yeah," Jon agrees, looking down at Lovett's hand. "If you don't want me to drag you out of this fucking bar right now, you might wanna move your hand."

Lovett blinks at him. "That was the single most manly thing you've ever said, and you've tried to explain hockey to me, what?, three dozen times. I'm into it. Like, really fucking into it."

Jon flicks his eyes towards Tommy, who's still at the bar waiting for their drinks.

"Fine, fine." Lovett sighs, swinging his legs around so they're crossed in front of him, and sliding his hand lower down Jon's leg. "Tommy's our friend so I guess I can, I don't know, keep my hands to myself."

He squeezes Jon's knee and leaves his palm there. Jon laughs, burying his own fingers under Lovett's t-shirt, brushing slow, symmetric circles on the bare skin just above his waistband.

"If you're good," Jon says, lowering his mouth to Lovett's ear. He glances at his phone, taking note of the time, "for another hour, then I'll get us out of here and back to my place."

Lovett turns his head, and Jon can see how dark his pupils have blown. "My place," Lovett argues. "The dogs are at my place."

"Fine," Jon agrees. "I don't really care, as long as there's a bed." 

"Deal," Lovett breathes, his fingers digging into Jon's knee.

"They're out of the good gin," Tommy says, as he slides back into his side of the booth. His gaze shifts between them, frowning slightly. "So, I got rum."

"That's perfect." Jon reaches out to grab his with his free hand. He spares a moment to feel guilty about his distraction, while Tommy's only in town for another couple of days. But, tomorrow's the Super Bowl- he'll be all Tommy's then. And, honestly, he can't be expected to think clearly when Lovett's leaning against his side, his skin warm and responsive under Jon's hand, and an hour countdown already clicking down in his head.

***

"What a fucking day." Lovett reaches over to pull a bottle opener out of his backpack and so he can open two bottles of beer.

Jon eyes the bottles warily. They're in his living room, but he's not sure where the bottles came from. "It's 11 am."

Lovett folds his legs under himself, settling next to Jon on the couch. "Bridge troll turned most-important-racist in the world Steve Bannon hates Muslims. Our illustrious President accused President Barack Obama of fucking treason then went to play a round of golf. And we're sitting here waiting for a bill that will take health care away from millions of people and unravel the most important thing we've done in our lives. If this isn't a time for day drinking, I don't know what is."

"In that case," Jon says, slowly, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Lovett's ankle, "shouldn't we be drinking something stronger?"

Lovett grunts. "I wanna be sober enough to write a few tweets about this god-forsaken health care bill. Then the hard stuff will come out."

"As long as you get the tweets out first."

Lovett glares at him. His eyes are as dark as Jon has ever seen them. "I waited to record the Pod before I pulled out the beer."

Jon sighs. "Someday, news is going to break before we record."

"I don't know," Lovett sighs. He's holding his bottle precariously against his knee, and Pundit crawls across their legs to sniff at the neck. Lovett lets her smell it for a moment, before pulling it away and taking a long sip. "It might be good to have a couple days to think and process before we have to talk about it without raging like lunatics."

"We have the livestream tomorrow," Jon reminds him. "With Funny or Die."

"Right." Lovett takes another sip. "Fuck."

"Hey." Jon squeezes his ankle. "Whatever happens today, Obamacare is still the most important thing we did in the White House. But, it's not the most important thing we'll ever do."

Lovett stares at him for so long that Jon almost convinces himself that Lovett's going to kiss him. It's been almost a month since that night before the Super Bowl, and while Jon's spent the last four weeks staring at the curve of Lovett's wrist when he talks and the way his collarbone stretches under his shirt when he throws his head back because Jon - sometimes, rarely, definitely not as often as he'd like - makes Lovett laugh, Lovett has never once intimated that Jon's driving him to the same distractions.

Lovett, though, just stretches out on the couch, bumping against Jon's body like it means nothing, like he's not even cataloguing all the places they fit together.

"Right," Lovett says, and at least his voice is a little lighter, "because there's a lunatic in the White House and we've started a media juggernaut."

"Right," Jon agrees. Lovett's elbow is digging into his side, his toes tapping an SOS into Jon's shoulders, his head pillowed on Jon's feet. Jon picks up his phone to distract himself, and swears. "Fuck. It's out."

Lovett scrambles for his phone. 

"God, this is just-" Jon says, when he's halfway through and can't bare it anymore.

"Diabolical?" Lovett offers, without looking away from his phone. "It's just- fuck, it's just Obamacare-lite. The crappy, stripped down, worse version of Obamacare that Lex Luther would have written?"

"A tax cut for the rich," Jon finishes, "paid for by cutting Medicare and taking healthcare from the poor."

"Right." Lovett keeps scrolling. "Wouldn't it be better to just, like, repeal the fucking bill? This replacement is shit."

Jon takes a deep breath, dropping his phone into his lap. "This can be good for us."

"Maybe." Lovett sighs, tapping his foot against Jon's side. "Maybe. It should be. But that's assuming Senators will vote their conscious."

Jon laughs. "Murkowski and Collins, maybe. Who else you think?"

"Paul?" 

Jon shakes his head. "Paul will vote his purse strings, probably."

"Ugh, this is depressing." Lovett arches his back, pressing himself even closer. "And I thought we were out of the prediction business."

"In public, sure." Jon shrugs against the cushions. "Between us it's fine."

"There's the sanctimony the Democratic Party's been missing." Lovett grins. "I've missed it."

"Fuck off," Jon says, half-heartedly.

Lovett laughs, lifting his knees and leaning them against Jon's chest. "Turn on CNN. Spiceys about to go on camera."

Jon reaches for the remote and turns on the TV. "God knows we didn't get enough of him this weekend."

Jon really has had enough of Sean Spicer to last him a lifetime, so Jon watches with one eye on the TV and the other on Twitter. Lovett, though, is glued to the screen the entire time. 

"Fuck," Lovett says, eventually. Jon lowers his phone, focusing all his attention on Lovett. "This is- he's so fucking pathetic. He needs to look at himself in the fucking mirror." 

Lovett gestures wildly, and Pundit jumps off the couch to avoid the bottle in Lovett's hand. 

"Sean, buddy, you do not get a pass for being a team player. And I know-" Lovett glares at Jon, like, maybe, some small part of this is Jon's fault. "You and Dan had Nicolle Wallace on the Pod last week and she said he's a nice guy, and, Jesus, I know, we hear this all the time, but- Sean, this is who you are now. You are not a nice guy. You are the voice of this despicable administration. You are the public face for a President that knows nothing but lying. You have backed him up at every fucking corner. You are a voluntary player in this administration and you will go down for it."

Jon swallows.

"Sorry, I just-" Lovett puts down his beer and turns his gaze on Jon. "Do we have to wait for the sun to go down before we have sex?"

Jon chokes at the pivot. "Ahh, no." He reaches over Lovett's knees to put his beer on the coffee table and kick Leo off the couch in the same gesture. He moves his hand up Lovett's knee. "No, I'm, ahh, good to go."

"That's," Lovett arches his back until it cracks, "good to know."

Even through the thin denim of his cheap maroon pants, Jon can feel how wired he is. He's thrumming under Jon's hand, every muscle sprung tight. It's been awhile since Jon's seen him this out of control. 

And it feels like both years and just moments since the first time they did this. When Lovett had been tight in an entirely different way, so tight that it took the better part of an hour for him to surrender to a fucking kiss. Jon would bet almost everything he has, though, that Lovett would willingly and gladly give Jon control of the demons in his head, now. All Jon has to do is ask.

So he does.

He tightens his hand, digging his fingers into Lovett's knee. "Stop talking," he orders, and Lovett's entire body freezes.

Lovett lifts his neck, opening his mouth, but then shuts it. He bites his bottom lip.

Sean Spicer is loud in the silence. He fills the 60-inch TV screen as he motions between two stacks of printed bills, spouting off false equivalencies about size and governmental effectiveness in an obnoxious, tinny voice. Lovett turns his head between Jon and the screen, his pupils blown and a little wild.

On this, possibly the worst day of Trump's administration so far, Lovett has erased even the hint of helplessness Jon's felt for the past few days. If he can do that for Lovett, if he can make Lovett feel half as powerful as Lovett makes him feel, well, Jon will call the entire fucking year a win.

Jon leaves the TV on.

He runs his hand up the inseam of Lovett's jeans and Lovett's gaze snaps to him. 

"Good," Jon murmurs. Lovett shivers. "You know how much I love it when you talk," he continues, quietly, keeping his voice steadily under the volume of the TV as he twists slowly on the couch. "But this version has some appeal."

Lovett makes a soft, involuntary noise and tries to pull his knee out of Jon's touch.

Jon follows him, tracing his hands up both of Lovett's inner thighs. "Not, like, always." Jon drops his head, so he can follow his hands with his mouth. "But, occasionally, if I can get you like this- If you let me see you like this-"

Lovett whines, lifting his hips and pushing his thighs into Jon's mouth.

"I'm just saying," Jon grins, "that I won't say no."

Lovett wraps his legs around Jon's hips, using his ankles to push him closer, closer.

Jon pushes back, sitting up and focusing on the button of Lovett's jeans, taking back control of his attention with a few flicks of his fingers. Lovett's eyes slip shut, but Jon pinches his hip, digging his nails into Lovett's skin hard enough to leave red, angry bruises where he's palest.

"Look at me."

Lovett's eyes fly open. His dick twitches noticeably in his jeans.

Jon presses deeper, for just a moment, then drops his head to kiss Lovett's skin 'til he's as flushed with the attention as he is with the bruises. Jon takes the moment of distraction to flick open the button on Lovett's jeans and unzip his fly, lifting his head only when he has to help Lovett pull off his pants.

Then he turns to Lovett's shirt, pulling it up and over his head and letting it twist and bunch around Lovett's wrists. Lovett's eyes are wide, and Jon dips his head to press a kiss to Lovett's slack mouth, before he helps Lovett roll over. 

He holds Lovett's wrists over his head. "Don't move them."

Lovett shivers and, this time, Jon watches it in the ripples of his muscles. Jon takes a moment to enjoy Lovett spread out and fighting every self-conscious instinct under him, before dropping his mouth to Lovett's skin.

He loses track of the time he spends exploring, cataloguing every twitch and whine and whimper. The way his skin swells under Jon's teeth, the way he arches into Jon's hands. Until Jon knows Lovett's body almost as well as he knows Lovett's mind.

Spicer's long given way to the CNN talking heads when Jon sits back on his heels, his mouth going dry as he trails a finger down Lovett's back, over the swell of his ass, ducking into the crack. "Can I- Fuck, Jon, please, tell me this is okay?"

Lovett turns his head, straining his neck so he can look down at Jon without moving his arms. He raises an eyebrow.

Jon flushes, his entire body burning, pooling sweat under his collar and behind his balls. His dick twitches. "You can talk now. Shit, you've been so fucking good, you have no idea-" Lovett smirks and Jon has to press the heel of his hand between his legs. He struggles to gain control of the situation again. "Just 'cause I've given you back your voice, doesn't mean you can move your hands."

"Aye, aye, Captain," Lovett quips, but it flutters out on a groan as Jon slips the tip of his index finger through the tight muscles of Lovett's ass.

"Fuck," Jon says, as Lovett drops his forehead back onto the cushions. "Jon, please-"

"Yes," Lovett breathes. "I'm fucking ready, asshole. I've been ready for fucking years."

Lovett spreads his knees, lifting up and back, setting a rhythm with his hips that Jon has no choice but to follow.

Lovett is tight and wet and welcoming, his body open and asking Jon for everything. In the decade they've known each other, Jon has never been able to deny him anything, and this is no occasion.

He slips in a second finger, twisting his knuckles, scissoring them, searching until he finds Lovett's prostate.

Lovett's body bends almost in half, a noise somewhere between a groan and a banshee slipping out. Jon catalogues it alongside 'noises Lovett makes when anyone remembers he's a math genius' and 'noises Lovett makes when Jon compliments his hair,' and he knows he'll be recalling this moment for the rest of his life.

"Jon, Jon, please, fuck, Jon."

Jon slides his attention back to Lovett, taking in the way his arms are shaking over his head, how his hips are moving rhythmically against the couch.

"Hey," Jon murmurs, "hey, I've got you." He slides his hand under Lovett's hips, wrapping his fist around Lovett's dick. He's already slick with precome and Jon pumps his fist in the same fast rhythm he's moving his fingers.

Lovett groans, his whole body shaking as he pushes back into Jon's hands, crying out Jon's name as he comes.

Jon works him through it, until he can't take it anymore. His hands are still slick and messy, but he doesn't worry about his pants as he fumbles with his fly and pushes his pants and briefs halfway down his thighs. 

Lovett hums, pushing back, tightening his thighs, inviting Jon to fit himself into the dark, warm, wet hollow between his thighs. Jon's blood rushes in his ears and all he can hear is Lovett's heavy breaths in between encouragements to "come on, yeah, Jon, fucking faster, give it to me, come one." Then Lovett flexes his thighs and Jon presses the head of his dick into the back of Lovett's balls, his whole body shaking apart.

"Fuck, Jon, just- Lift up, just a little, just-"

Jon's hearing swims back into focus as Lovett is shifting under him. He tips himself sideways, kicking his pants to the floor and making enough room for Lovett to roll onto his back. He reaches up to help, feebly, pull Lovett's t-shirt from around his wrists.

"Thanks," Lovett murmurs, for the t-shirt and for so much more.

Jon fits himself along Lovett's side, pressing a warm, lazy kiss to Lovett's shoulder as Lovett runs a soothing path along Jon's bare spine.

"I'm gonna-" Jon warns, his eyes already slipping closed.

"Yeah," Lovett chuckles against Jon's ear, leaving his lips against Jon's skin as he parrots Jon's words back to him. "Sleep. I've got you."

***

"Ryancare?" Lovett drums his fingers against Jon's chest. "Trumpcare?"

Jon scratches at Lovett's scalp. "Wealthcare."

"I gave you two options. Wealthcare wasn't one of them."

Jon shifts, slipping his calf between Lovett's and blinking his eyes open. The mid-afternoon sun is streaming through Lovett's shades, throwing stripes of light and dark across his flushed skin. "I can think of a few things I'd rather be doing right now than talking about Paul fucking Ryan."

"Well." Lovett trails his fingers down Jon's chest, slipping under the sheets to cup his softening dick. "We've already done most of those things. I wore you out, remember?"

"Not nearly enough, apparently," Jon grumbles. "I was kind of thinking we could take a nap?"

Lovett rolls his eyes so hard that Jon feels the flutter of eyelashes without seeing them. "Just 'cause you're filling in on my first ever solo podcast doesn't mean you get to be a diva about it."

"Your gratitude is overwhelming."

"I promised you a blowjob after the show, what more do you want?" Lovett squeezes Jon's knee. "In fact, I bribed you with a preview of your reward, so, really, I've already over delivered."

Jon tugs on Lovett's curls, but he's still buzzing with the proof of Lovett's argument, so he can't really deny it.

"Thought so." Lovett pushes against Jon's chest, putting a foot of cool air between them. Jon whines, reaching for him, and Lovett chuckles as he settles back against the headboard. He has a stack of extra-large index cards and a sharpie in his hands, but he does slip a pillow over his lap. "You can do whatever your diva heart desires, but I have some fiddling to do. This game still isn't right."

"Hey." Jon catches his wrist, pressing a kiss to his pressure point. "You were born to host a live comedy podcast about politics. You're gonna be fantastic."

Lovett's grin brightens the entire room and Jon buries his answer in the pillow.

"I'm really glad," Lovett says, as he readjusts his legs so Jon can rest his head more comfortably on Lovett's thighs, "that you're gonna be there, tonight. I mean, it sucks that Sasha canceled, but, I'm glad you'll be there. And if I didn't thank you enough- thank you."

Jon hums, rubbing against Lovett's foot. "You thanked me plenty, but I will still hold you to your promise."

"Would never dream otherwise." Lovett rests his index cards in Jon's hair and reaches for his phone on the nightstand. "Now, shush, I've got work to do."

Jon chuckles, closing his eyes. 

He opens them what must be an hour or so later, if the softening light is any indication. His face is still smashed against Lovett's bare thighs and Lovett's fingers are running loosely through his hair.

"It's fine," Lovett's voice is low, calmer than it was when Jon fell asleep. 

"No, that's not a line," Lovett sighs, hard enough that Jon can feel it. "It really is fine. You're moving here in, like, ten days, for the sake of _our company_. I know LA wasn't exactly your first choice. Although - and, look, I know you love San Fran, but LA is just objectively a better town. It's sunny and Hanna's gonna love the beaches and maybe you can finally get that dog you've been talking about for fucking years. Plus, Jon and I are here, so, you know- " 

Tommy must interrupt him, because Lovett goes silent for a moment, then chuckles, his fingers tightening in Jon's hair.

Jon wraps his fingers around Jon's knee, squeezing gently, just to let him know that Jon's awake.

Lovett scratches at Jon's scalp with his fingernails. "Anyway, it's just the first episode. You can come once you're in town and I've worked out a few of the, ahh, kinks."

Tommy says something that makes Lovett laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. Make it FDR socks and a red clown nose, and you'll be forgiven."

Lovett trails his hand down Jon's neck as he listens to Tommy.

"Of course, yeah. Thank you, for calling. Pundit and Leo can't wait for you to get here already." He laughs again, then he drops his hand, tossing his phone across the bed. "Hey."

Jon grins, squeezing Lovett's knee again, then trailing his fingers up the inside of Lovett's thighs. "It was nice of Tommy to call."

Lovett shakes his head, but his voice is grinning. "You're so fucking distracting."

"Mmm." Jon lifts himself onto his elbow as he continues his path with his other hand, cupping Lovett's balls and rolling them gently between his fingers.

Lovett groans, throwing his head back against the headboard and arching his back. His dick starts to harden, bumping against Jon's cheek.

"I'm the one," Lovett breathes out, "who owes you a blowjob."

Jon shrugs - "You can pay me back. After the show." - and slips the head of Lovett's dick into his mouth.

***

Tommy does make good on his promise.

The first Friday after he moves to LA, he shows up at the Hollywood Improv in a Crooked Media clown nose and his pants rolled halfway up his calves to show off his FDR socks.

"You," Lovett says from the front seat of Jon's car after the show, barely able to stop laughing long enough to make fun of him, "are distractingly ridiculous. Welcome to West Hollywood, you're going to fit in swimmingly." Lovett frowns. "Was that mixing metaphors? Can you fit in swimmingly? Do fish 'fit in'?"

Jon glances sideways. Lovett's sitting backwards in his seat, his back pressed against the dashboard and his legs crossed against the backrest. His jeans are pulled taught around his thighs. "Yes. No. And I don't think so." 

"Huh." Lovett's still flushed from the adrenaline and the stage lights. He shrugs. "Well, Tommy, you're not going to fit in swimmingly, but you're gonna fit in somehow with these FDR socks. They love political novelty socks around here."

In the rearview mirror, Tommy grins. "You're such an asshole."

Lovett spreads his hands, almost knocking over the Diet Coke he has squeezed precariously between his legs. Jon reaches over to right it, letting his fingers linger dangerously close to Lovett's fly.

Lovett, though, is focused on Tommy. "I wasn't even being sarcastic."

"Well, then, I'm sorry." Tommy places an exaggerated hand on his chest. "I didn't even consider that possibility, it's so rare."

"Like an exotic truffle."

"You really need to stop reading that Blue Apron copy."

Lovett raises an eyebrow. "Now that you're here, maybe you can start pulling your weight and doing some of the ad reads."

"Mmm." Tommy taps his knee. "You guys have a good thing going, wouldn't want to disrupt that."

"So fucking lazy." Lovett sighs pointedly in Jon's direction. "We have the laziest fucking cofounder."

Jon pulls into their driveway. "Think we should kick him out?"

They can hear the dogs scrambling against the door from the garage, and Lovett tips gracefully out of the car. "Nah. We could use a dog walker."

Tommy rolls his eyes, but he's the first to the door, and then he's on his knees, letting Leo and Pundit lick his face like they haven't seen him every day for the past week.

Lovett steps over him to get into the kitchen and pull a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. He pops the champagne, and Pundit's ears perk up. She comes over to investigate, and Lovett makes sure the cork is big enough before letting her play with it.

He sets the Sonos and takes the bottle and three glasses into the living room. Jon's already there, and he's stupidly grateful when Lovett crosses his legs on the couch next to him.

"Cheers," Jon offers, "to a successful- what is it? Five shows?"

"Six." Lovett holds up his glass. "It's a juggernaut."

Jon rolls his eyes, but he keeps his glass raised. "And to a successful move. Welcome to LA, Tommy."

They all down their glasses, and Lovett refills them as Tommy settles onto the carpet with Leo between his legs. "Not a successful move yet. If you only knew how many boxes I have to climb through to get to the bedroom," he groans.

"Jon and I can help," Lovett offers, smooth and easy. "We can come over tomorrow. We'll even bring a few bottles of wine and the dogs."

"We'll be a real help," Jon says, as sarcastically as he can as he's struggling to keep his voice steady. Lovett frowns at him, but Tommy doesn't look up from playing with Leo's ears.

"Don't listen to Favs. We'll be useful. I've been going to Barry's Bootcamp." He flexes an arm, glancing at it critically. "Didn't you notice?"

Tommy barely manages to raise an eyebrow, he's laughing so hard.

Jon's mouth is dry, and he forces his eyes away. He pulls up Postmates on his phone.

"Fuck you both." Lovett leans over. Jon's had over a decade's practice in ignoring Lovett's presence, but, right now, Jon's hyper aware of Lovett's champagne-sweet breath, of the way Lovett's new muscles bunch and pull at his Straight Shooter t-shirt, of the way Lovett bites his bottom lip as he peers over Jon's shoulder. Jon can't help running through memories of where Lovett's mouth has been, of how exactly he can put those new muscles to use.

He swallows.

Lovett jabs his elbow into Jon's side as he hooks his chin over Jon's shoulder. "Pizza is the best idea you've had in hours. Order four."

"There's three of us."

Lovett glares at Tommy, but he doesn't move his chin. "Congratulations, you can count. You want a medal for that? Maybe one of the small, plastic ones with the fraying ribbon that the staff give Trump every time he uses the right number of ellipses."

"I'm just saying, that's a lot of pizza."

Lovett shrugs. "Jon'll run with you tomorrow. Help you burn it off so you can keep that trim figure."

"Thanks," Jon deadpans. He puts a fourth pizza in his cart and finishes the order.

Lovett shrugs. "It's important, you know, now that we work in an audio-only medium."

Tommy laughs.

Jon flips over to Twitter as he raises an eyebrow. "And what about you?"

"Barry's Bootcamp. Are you even listening?" Lovett falls back into the couch cushions dramatically.

"As little as absolutely possible."

"Besides," Lovett continues over him. "I eat pizza. You two work it off. It's a great deal for me."

Tommy shrugs. "That's not how it works."

"Mmm," Lovett shrugs, "I'm doing fine."

His shirt is riding up a little, and Jon can't really argue with that assessment. His mouth goes dry.

Lovett kicks his thigh as he scrambles off the couch. "I need more champagne. What do you guys want?"

"Beer," Tommy says.

"Whatever," Jon swallows. "Surprise me."

Lovett huffs in exasperation, and heads into the kitchen.

When the doorbell rings a few minutes later, Tommy gets up to get the pizza, and Jon follows Lovett into the kitchen.

"What the fuck," Lovett says, without preamble, as he pours something pink into three glasses, "is wrong with you?"

"What?" Jon leans against the counter next to him, crossing his arms across his chest defensively. "You've been in here forever, just wanted to make sure you hadn't fallen into the champagne."

"I'm making something awesome."

"'Surprise me' was my first mistake, huh?"

"Yeah, probably." Lovett shrugs. "Seriously, though, you're being fucking weird. Knock it off."

Jon reaches for one of the drinks and takes a long, sugary sip. He shudders.

"Awful?" Lovett takes a thoughtful sip of his own. "Mmm, not too bad."

"You have the worst fucking taste."

Lovett raises an eyebrow at Jon's body. "Not in everything."

"No." Jon agrees, lowering his voice as he drops his head closer. "You were so good tonight. I've been wanting to kiss you for hours."

Lovett's eyes dart to the kitchen doorway, but he doesn't pull away when Jon kisses him. Quick, but with a satisfying amount of teeth and tongue.

"Fuck," Lovett says, when Jon pulls away.

"Pundit, no, shit. Pizza is for the grownups," They hear Tommy say from the living room.

Jon smirks, reaching around him to grab Tommy's glass. "We should go rescue the dogs from Tommy."

"Yeah." Lovett clears his throat, and tries again, yelling, "pizza isn't good for dogs," into the living room.

"Your dog's a monster," Tommy tells him, as they enter. There's pizza sauce on his chest.

"Pundit is an angel." Lovett pats the seat next to him on the couch and Pundit jumps up, resting her head on his knee and closing her eyes.

Jon laughs, as he retakes his seat next to Lovett.

***

Jon feels a little more settled by the time he gets to Tommy's the next afternoon. If Lovett wants to schedule their collective Saturday like he's the keeper of Jon's goddamn calendar and pretend that that's normal for best friends-turned-cofounders-of-a-rookie-media-empire, than Jon can play the normal game, too.

"You weren't kidding," he calls to Tommy as he climbs over a stack of boxers in the foyer. Leo and Pundit squirm through them, racing for the open backdoor, and Jon sighs at them. "You ever think it would be nice to be that small?"

"It's not as great as you'd think, being this compact." Lovett puts the case of wine they brought on the top of the box stack and follows Jon over them.

"Is that what we're calling it now? Compact?"

Lovett grumbles. "I've never heard you complain."

It would be easier, Jon thinks, to play it cool if Lovett would play by his own damn rules.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." Tommy slides into the room in rainbow socks. "Let me just-" He reaches for the top few boxes and pushes them into another corner of the room.

"Not that you need more boxes," Jon offers, "but we brought celebratory wine."

Lovett blows the noisemaker he'd insisted they stop to buy. "Happy 100 days." He tosses a cone-shaped party hat at Tommy. "Put on your hat."

Tommy slips the elastic under his chin and behind his ears.

"We've survived 7% of the Trump Presidency. Only 93% to go," Lovett explains.

Jon reaches up to adjust the black plastic top hat clipped into his own hair. It has a big, glittery '100' glued to the front. "When you put it like that- "

Lovett tilts his head, thoughtfully. "100 days sounds better, doesn't it?"

Jon laughs. "Yeah, stick with that."

Tommy grabs the wine and leads the way into the kitchen. It's large and sunny, with granite counters and newly-installed cabinets. "Our party might even be better than Paul Ryan's."

"Do you think we should have bought enough kazoos to send to the White House? There's not, like, so many staff members that it would have broken the bank," Lovett asks, leaning against the counter and blowing on the noisemaker again. "Maybe a party is all the Cucks and the White Nationalists need to start getting along."

"Might be enough to make Spicey a Friend of the Pod." Tommy grabs a pair of scissors from the counter and hands them to Jon. "The wine opener is in one of these boxes."

Lovett glares at him. "Told you we should have bought twist tops."

"Told you," Jon parrots, "that we should have brought a wine opener."

"Tommy's a fucking wino. He has, like, the sniffing glasses and all that." Lovett slides up onto the counter and rests his feet on the pile of kitchen boxes. "Excuse me for thinking he'd open his wine opener first."

Tommy shrugs a little guiltily. "I've actually been buying twist tops since we moved in."

Lovett's mouth drops. "Does that mean you have to turn in your wine club card?"

"If you want wine," Tommy hands over an exacto knife, "less quips, more opening."

"I can do both." Lovett slides his legs to either side of the boxes and leans down, opening the top one. He pulls out a bunch of packaging and the opener falls into his lap. He holds it up. "Found it. Told you I could do both."

Tommy laughs, but he leans over to take it. "Now we just have to find glasses."

"I'm good with a bottle." Lovett hops off the counter and reaches into the case, pulling out a bottle. "Open and point me to the closet, where I can actually be useful." 

"Know a lot about closets, do you?"

"I've been out since I was a pre-teen. I know nothing about closets." Lovett takes a swig from his bottle, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "But I am gay, so I know a lot about color coding."

Jon puts down the glass plate he's holding so he can laugh as hard as he wants to.

Tommy grins. "I'm so happy to be here." As far as Jon can tell, he really means it.

When Lovett comes back a few hours later, Jon and Tommy have the kitchen done and have moved out to the pool. Pundit's curled on Jon's lounge chair and Leo's crouched by the water's edge, staring at the ball he's knocked in for the hundredth time.

"Your closet is color-coordinated and arranged by pattern," Lovett announces. "Job, done. Also, this bottle of wine." He holds up the nearly-empty bottle and shakes it. "Yep, mostly gone."

He sits on the edge of Jon's lounge chair so he can pet Pundit's head. 

"We finished the whole kitchen in that time." 

Lovett shrugs. He bends one leg onto the chair, brushing against Jon's. "I'm thorough, so sue me."

"Hanna will appreciate it," Tommy nods, solemnly. "She will not, however, appreciate this wine. It's shit."

Lovett narrows his eyes at the flush high on Tommy's cheeks. Jon can feel a similar buzz on his own skin.

Lovett raises an eyebrow. "Couldn't have been that bad."

"We should probably call a Lyft," Jon agrees, fumbling to get his phone out of his back pocket. Lovett laughs as he reaches over to help him.

Jon freezes as Lovett wiggles his fingers into Jon's back pocket and doesn't move again until Lovett pulls back, waving Jon's phone triumphantly.

Jon waits until they're in the car, but just barely. Then he's pulling Lovett's thighs over his, holding his hips steady and pulling him into a wet, sloppy kiss.

"Happy 100 days," Jon tells him, as he drops his mouth to the v in Lovett's Henley that's been distracting him for most of the day.

Lovett moans and twists his head to give Jon more room. He adjusts the plastic, clip-on hat on Jon's head. "You look good in hats."

"That's the wine speaking," Jon scoffs. He pulls down Lovett's shirt, so he can bite kisses further along his collarbone.

"Fuck." Lovett shifts. His clothed erection presses into Jon's thigh, and Jon lets his eyes shift closed. "You have no idea the effect you can have," Lovett whispers, twisting his hands, hard, into the shorter hair behind Jon's ears. "The hat works. Trust me."

Jon rests his forehead against Lovett's chest, breathing deeply. 

Next to them, the dogs are curled on the backseat, watching with wide, curious tilts of their heads. 

"We let the dogs out, then bed?" He offers, a little unsure for the first time in a while.

Lovett, though, just pulls him into a deep, messy kiss. And when the Lyft driver stops, he dips sideways out of the door and pulls at Jon's hand.

"Thank you," Jon tells the driver. "I'll leave you an extra-large tip, promise."

The dogs race past him towards the gate to the backyard.

Normal, Jon thinks, is not going to fucking work.

Lovett's opening the gate, though, his sweatpants tented obscenely and a happy, buzzed grin on his face as he motions for Jon to join them.

Jon pushes the thought deep into the recesses of his mind.

***

" _This_ is the Bad Place." Lovett frowns as he taps frantically at his keyboard. "This is hell. I'm in a metal prison in the sky."

Jon hands over a headphone. "Mine's working. For now."

"Is this why Trump's administration is so stupid? Because his advisors spend too much time flying back and forth from Mar-a-Largo, with no fucking information en route?"

Jon waggles the earbud.

Lovett takes it, but he finishes ranting - "when we win back Congress, the first thing we should fight for is a national airplane Internet law. It'll go light years to building an informed electorate" - before shoving the earbud into his left ear and leaning against the armrest so he can watch over Jon's shoulder.

"Yes. GoGo Inflight WiFi is definitely our biggest issue for 2018, just ahead of voter intimidation, voting reform for non-violent convicts, and gerrymandering," Jon deadpans as he turns his tablet so Lovett can see.

Lovett drops his chin into his palm and pretends not to hear him.

Jon focuses back on CNN and tries to forget that they actually are in a metal prison in the sky. Not because the WiFi keeps freezing over Paul Ryan's fucking horse face, but because they could hit, like, a cloud or a bird or something and tumble out of the sky at any moment. And the last thing they'd remember is Paul Ryan readying to call a vote on repealing the most important piece of legislation they ever worked on. A permanent Schrodinger's Cat of ACA repeal.

He jots that one down in his phone notes.

The screen freezes again and Lovett rips the earbud out of his ear, collapsing back against his chair. "If we don't land before this vote starts, I swear-"

Tommy leans forward, so they can see him above their armrest. "20 minutes 'til we land."

As if on cue, the announcement clicks on. "We are beginning our descent into Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Please fasten your seatbelts and put your tray tables up. We'll have you in Seattle in about 20 minutes."

"You're a freak, you know that?" Jon closes his tablet over the Paul Ryan freeze frame.

"Knowledge is power." Tommy shrugs. "Also, I fly with you two often enough- I've had to learn some coping mechanisms."

"I just drink," Lovett suggests, finishing off his second mini-bottle and passing the garbage to the flight attendant, his arm stretching across Jon's chest.

Jon shoves him back into his own seat and Tommy settles back into his. They're both laughing.

Jon lets it wash over him as he pulls out his phone and starts typing a Tweet storm to post when they land. 

He sends it the moment they crash onto the tarmac, then he switches over to his feed. He loves LTE Internet back more than he loves, possibly, anything. It feels like he's been off Twitter for an eternity that was only a couple of hours, and he doesn't look up as they de-plane.

"Favreau." Tommy calls and Jon looks up. There's an airport cart driving right into his path.

Lovett's fingers twist around his elbow and pull at him. "My heart. Jesus. Get off Twitter, just long enough for us to get to the damn hotel." Lovett tightens his fingers, and he doesn't let go as they head to the exit. "Although, death by Twitter slash airport cart would be a very Bad Place way to die, and we have entered the Bad Place by way of the Twilight Zone, so, maybe- "

"My head hurts," Dan sighs. "Can we get to a TV?"

"They'll be one at the hotel," Jon offers. They're at the curb and he stops walking, turning his eyes back to his phone. Now that they've stopped moving, Lovett reads over his shoulder. His hair brushes against Jon's neck and Jon takes a moment - just a moment - to stop thinking about ACA repeal long enough to file the feeling away for later.

Dan rolls his eyes. "Then let's call a cab. Stat."

"Already on it." Tommy waves his phone. "Also, 'stat'?"

"I'm a little on edge."

Jon finds the C-Span Twitter account and starts the livestream. Lovett motions behind him. "Shh, both of you."

"We're all a little on edge," Dan amends.

"Yeah," Tommy says, slowly. Jon can feel Tommy's eyes on his back, but before he can turn around, Tommy calls, "that's us," and leads them to the black Civic that looks like all the other black Civics in the traffic circle, but has the right green Lyft sign in the front window.

When they get to the hotel, the vote is just about to start, and while Dan goes to check them in, Jon migrates to the lobby bar. SportsCenter is playing on the TVs, and Jon takes a seat at the bar.

"Gin and Tonic," he orders, glancing behind him. Lovett and Tommy are already following him. "Three gin and tonics. And a beer. And can you change the TV to C-Span?"

"I'm sorry?"

"C-Span," Jon repeats, as he digs through his bag for his power cord. "It comes with every cable package, I'm sure you get it."

"Shit." Lovett drops his backpack to the floor. He's staring at Jon's hands. "I forgot my power cord."

"Oh." Jon plugs his phone in, then goes back to his bag, digging around and coming up with a second cord. He hands it over. "I figured you'd forget it, so I packed the-" Jon stops just short of finishing _the cord you leave at my place_ , and course corrects, "an extra."

"Don't you have an Android?" Tommy asks, his gaze drifting from Jon to Lovett.

"Yeah." Lovett ducks his head to plug his phone in, then climbs into the seat next to Jon, knocking their knees together. "Thanks - that could have been bad."

"No problem," Jon says, lightly.

Tommy opens his mouth, but he closes it as the bartender appears. "3 gin and tonics and a beer. And you said Span?"

Jon hands out the drinks. "C-Span."

"You should really know what that is," Lovett says. "I'm not saying you should watch it - it's the most boring channel in your cable package and you probably get, like, 15 HBO movie channels all showing Clueless - but you should at least know what C-Span is."

"Lovett."

Lovett's head jerks immediately to Tommy, and Jon's chest twists.

"We're gonna be here for hours," Tommy offers. "We might want the bartender to like us a little."

Lovett blinks. "You control the gin. Right. Let me look up the channel." He flicks through his phone, finally finding, "24."

The bartender changes the channel as Dan appears behind them. "Our rooms are three floors up. It would take us five minutes to get there."

"The vote's about to start," Lovett says.

"There's alcohol down here," Tommy argues, at the same time.

Jon just pushes the beer towards Dan and pulls out a chair with his foot.

Dan sighs, flipping their room keys down the bar and downing half his beer as he takes his seat. "This is going to be a long afternoon."

***

"Stop," Lovett says, looking up from his phone a few hours later, "trying to get Wealthcare to stick."

"You know," Jon says, easily, as a notification pops up on his own phone, "that yelling at me about it on Twitter only helps make it a trending hashtag."

Lovett rolls his eyes. "A sixth of our nation's economy is under attack and the trending tag is '#maythefourthbewithyou'-"

"Which you're tweeting about," Dan points out. 

"-we don't have the power to make anything trend," Lovett finishes

"Oh, come on." Tommy narrows his eyes. "Things aren't _that_ dark."

"They're not good." Dan argues.

"They're fucking terrible." Lovett slides his leg under him, leaning forward in his seat. "Also, where's my hamburger? I have a lot of feelings to eat."

They've moved to a restaurant around the corner from the hotel, now that the votes are in. Jon reaches for his beer. "Nothing like drowning our sorrows in a pound of meat," he says, although he could think of some other ways he'd like to drown his sorrows. Some other kinds of meat, now that he thinks about it. He laughs, despite himself.

"If there's something you find funny," Tommy accuses, turning his head to look at Jon, "please, by all means, share with the class. We could use a little humor."

Jon shakes his head, switching tactics. "You know, you're not entirely wrong, Tommy. This bill sucks, but it's dead on arrival in the Senate, so there is some good news."

Lovett rests his elbow on the table and drops his chin into his palm. "You never tell me I'm right."

Tommy chuckles. "I'm not right. I'm just not wrong. It's a Favreau backhanded compliment."

Jon rolls his eyes. "Can we talk about this bill? Or would you rather disparage my management style?"

Lovett shrugs. "We're talented. I think we can do both."

"When people ask," Dan tells them, "this is why I don't move to LA."

"Also," Jon narrows his eyes, "you didn't actually put any money into this company."

"This media juggernaut," Lovett amends.

Dan leans back in his chair. "That's fair. Carry on."

"I just think," Jon says, slowly, trying to circle the conversation back around, "that we should figure out what we're gonna talk about on the live Pod tomorrow. Because standing on stage in despair isn't really an option."

"Fine, fine." Lovett shifts, bumping Jon's ankle under the table. Jon leans into it. "We should start with the Senate."

"The 13 White Guys," Tommy pauses, "I'm sorry, I mean 12 White Guys and Ted Cruise - who are in charge of writing a bill to defund Planned Parenthood and take away medical care for pregnant women?"

"Ted Cruise." Dan shakes his head. "Fucking Ted Cruise, man. He gets a spot on the committee, while Collins and Cassidy - who, don't get me wrong, wrote an evil, snake of a bill - aren't even invited."

"You know why? You wanna know why, Dan? Because Collins is a woman."

"Ding, ding, ding."

"This is gonna be a fun show," Tommy says, as their waiter finally arrives with their food.

Lovett cuts his burger in half, then lifts it so the juice from the tomato and the beef trail down his palm. "Very loose."

Jon has a hard time focusing on his own steak as Lovett takes a bite, then drops the burger back to his plate. He licks at the edge of his hand, then catches Jon looking and flushes from the tips of his ears.

Jon adjust himself and Lovett's eyes go wide, before he looks away. Jon thinks about Marco Rubio, Scott Walker, Paul Ryan. Marco Rubio, Scott Walker, Paul Ryan. Marco Rubio, Scott Walker, Paul Ryan. Eventually, he softens enough to focus on his own plate.

After dinner, Jon pays the bill with the company card, and then they push back their chairs.

"Oh." Lovett is the last to leave, and he grabs the receipt from the table. "Don't forget the receipt. Lisa sent that email, about needing the itemized, remember?"

"Ahh," Jon checks his back pocket. "I already grabbed-"

Lovett shoves the receipt into Jon's hand. It's hard and thick, and Jon glances down to see a room key. His eyes go wide, and he swallows.

"Right, thanks. Lisa will be very appreciative."

Lovett hums.

"I need a night cap," Dan says, as they get back to the hotel. "Anyone wanna join?"

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, as Lovett says, "I'm pretty tired, I think I'm gonna head right up. Maybe Skype Pundit."

"I-" Jon pauses, then finishes as everything in him screams for the opposite, "I can do one drink."

The same bartender is still there, and he raises his eyebrows at them. "There's a ball game on."

Dan huffs out a laugh. "We're actually pretty good with that. We've had enough politics for the day."

"For a lifetime," Tommy agrees.

Jon has more he wants to say. He wants to rail over Paul Ryan's betrayal of the American People, he wants to voice the poisonous spark of hopelessness that's been growing all day, he wants to joke about Marco Rubio until he hurts a little less, and he wants to draw circles across Lovett's back, find an outlet for all these feelings he has no words for in the warmth of Lovett's skin.

He accepts the gin and tonic Tommy hands him and takes a long sip. His hands are shaking against the glass. The room card burns against his thigh.

"Seattle needs a basketball team," Dan muses, settling into his bar stool. "Also, a hockey team."

"It's cold enough," Tommy agrees, taking an unhurried sip of his drink. "It would make more sense than the two in LA. There's fucking palm trees outside the stadium in Anaheim."

Jon's drink is mostly gone and he's pretty sure that everywhere he's showing skin it's flushed. He's having an awfully hard time following the conversation.

"California, man," Dan shakes his head.

"LA," Tommy corrects. "San Francisco's just, like, Boston, but 3,000 miles away."

This is not the level of discretion Jon's been striving to maintain, and if Lovett knew- Fuck. Lovett left first. Jon can't be bothered to play it all that cool.

"Okay, well," Jon breaks in, sliding his empty glass onto the bar between them. "If this is going to become an LA-bashing party, that's my cue."

Dan's eyes shine. "It can be a Boston-bashing party if you'd rather."

"No, no," Jon says, too quickly, if the look Tommy and Dan share is to go by. "You guys go ahead. LA has too many cacti, too many sunny days, too much beach. I really am pretty tired."

He high-tails it out of the bar before either of them can respond, and Lovett's key card is already out of his pocket the minute he crosses the bar's threshold. He has too much adrenaline to wait for the elevator so he takes the stairs two at a time, and he's a little breathless by the time he swipes the card to open Lovett's door.

Lovett's waiting for him, dressed in a t-shirt and his TommyJohns, his bare legs crossed in front of him on the carpet. "What took you so long?" He says, in greeting.

Jon leans back against the door, catching his breath. "You left me at the fucking bar."

"Well, excuse me, I had more faith in your ability to drink quickly." He motions to the litter of small bottles scattered around his knees. It must be half the mini-bar. "I didn't have any problems."

"I see that." Jon pulls his shirt over his head and toes out of his shoes. "I love Dan and Tommy, I swear I fucking love them, but if I had to spend another minute down there instead of up here- "

He undoes his belt and slides his jeans down to pool with the rest of his clothing at his feet.

Lovett raises his eyebrow at the slight bulge in Jon's briefs. "Ready, huh?"

"More than."

Lovett laughs, then lifts onto his knees, reaching forward to dig through his open suitcase. His briefs stretch across his ass, and Jon pushes off the door, crossing the room and taking a seat on the mattress next to where Lovett's spread out on the floor. He drops his hand between his legs, jerking himself through the cotton. He groans.

"Fuck." Lovett finds what he's looking for, turning around and staring, mouth red and open, at Jon's hand. He's clutching lube and condoms in his hands.

Jon's hand stutters. "Fuck," he parrots.

"I thought-" Lovett shrugs, not moving his eyes. "Don't stop."

"Jon, you can't-" Jon swallows. He won't deny that he's been thinking about it almost exclusively - ACA repeal and that warm, hot space between Lovett's thighs - for the past few weeks. He's tried to bring it up a few times, but it's hard to think about anything else with Lovett's mouth around his dick. Now that Lovett's holding lube, though- Jon's stomach swoops in anticipation, and his hand starts moving again of its own accord. "Are you sure?"

Lovett laughs and it cracks in the middle. "Yeah, I'm fucking sure." He climbs to his feet, moving to Jon and dropping the supplies on the bed next to him. Jon flinches, turning his head so he can watch the bottle bounce across the mattress. "Hey," Lovett twists his hands in Jon's hair.

Jon blinks, turning his head. He wraps his hands around Lovett's hips, manhandling Lovett between his knees. He slides his index fingers under the waistband, stretching out the logo and wishing for one ridiculous moment that John of TommyJohn spelled his name without an 'h,' before pulling the fabric down just a little. Just enough for him to press a red, angry bruise into Lovett's pale, soft skin.

Lovett jerks forward, hardening against Jon's cheek. Jon tightens his grip, holding Lovett steady as he pulls his briefs down another inch. Jon swipes his tongue along the new strip of skin, then breathes out "you're so beautiful." Lovett goosebumps, his stomach rippling as he fights not to push closer.

"You need to get your eyes checked," Lovett tells him.

Jon pushes his index fingers down another two inches, well below the line of Lovett's pubic hair. "I'm not the one who needs glasses." Jon sighs. "I wish I could take a picture, show you how you look to me."

Lovett's thighs are shaking a little, and Jon tightens his knees, holding Lovett steady between them.

"I've been thinking about you all day," Jon admits, pulling the cotton down another inch. They're bunched around the widest part of Lovett's hips, and Jon untangles one hand so he can trace his fingers over the soft skin of Lovett's ass.

"Yeah," Lovett says, as sarcastically as he can while Jon's finger trails up and down his asscrack. "Trump throws a fucking champagne celebration in the Rose Garden and you were thinking about my ass."

"Nope," Jon agrees, shifting his shoulder so he can reach his middle finger lower. "When Paul Ryan smiled that fucking ridiculous smile, I thought about your ass. I thought about sucking your dick during the Rose Garden 'celebration.'"

Jon pulls back, and Lovett whines. Jon quiets him as he reaches for the lube, pouring half the bottle into his left palm. It's cold and clear, and Lovett moans, biting his lip as he watches Jon curl his index and middle fingers into the gel.

"Your mind is a dirty place," Lovett tells him through gritted teeth.

"What better way to fight The Resistance fight - " Jon asks, as he returns his fingers to Lovett's ass. His index finger slides in easily, now that it's coated with more lube then Lovett would ever need. "- than to fuck?"

Lovett arches his back and Jon's finger slides in another few inches. They both moan. "Mike Pence would be so pleased."

"Fuck him." Jon breathes, twisting his finger and adding the tip of his middle. Lovett's body opens easily for him. "Fuck them all."

Lovett's hands tighten in Jon's hair. "Fuck me."

Jon laughs, falling forward helplessly, drowning his laughter in Lovett's skin as he adds a third finger, twisting his wrist and scissoring them.

"No, really." Lovett's legs are shaking against Jon's, his ass thrusting back in rhythm with Jon's fingers, his hands tugging at Jon's hair. "I'm ready. Please, fuck me."

Jon's laughter slips into an extended groan.

He pulls his hand back, wiping his fingers on his own briefs. He still has a pool of lube in his left palm, but he helps Lovett finish pulling of his briefs one-handed, then stands, reaching for his own. Lovett slaps his hand away, then finishes the job for him and slips a condom on. He wraps his fingers around Jon's left hand, guiding him to lube up his dick.

Jon's pretty sure he isn't going to last more than five minutes. 

"Come on," Lovett murmurs, guiding Jon onto the mattress and arching his hips to meet him.

Jon might black out as he pushes in, but he can't be sure. He doesn't actually know if he lasts two or twenty minutes, losing all track of time in the heat of Lovett's body, the smoothness of his skin, the wet of his lips as he threads moans and whines into Jon's mouth. Jon's never felt so overwhelmed by another person, so surrounded, so unable to distinguish where he ends and Lovett begins. He snaps his hips, Lovett drags his nails over Jon's shoulders, the room is filled with moans and whines and breathless "Jon"s that Jon doesn't even try to work separate anymore.

Jon comes first. He feels it building, but it overtakes him before he realizes it, shaking through his body, starting in his toes and setting all his hairs on fire. He's still buzzing with it as Lovett drops a hand between their bodies, jerking himself off furiously, coming with a long groan between their chests. His body clenches, and Jon groans, dropping his forehead to Lovett's shoulder, his hips jerking helplessly.

"Jesus." Jon pulls out gently, tying off the condom and tossing it into the direction of the trash can.

Lovett stretches next to him, his knees and elbows cracking as he reaches for the sheet. "What a day for The Resistance."

***

"Hey."

Jon freezes, his hand still on the handle of Lovett's hotel door. "Ahh." He forces his best, naive smile, and turns. "Morning."

Dan points to the elevator. "I'm heading down to try out the breakfast buffet. It's probably gonna be awful, but, I like some eggs with my morning Twitter."

"It's 6 am."

"Yeah," Dan chuckles. "Still an early riser, don't think that'll ever change. And since you're up, too-" He trails off, finally taking in Jon's appearance.

Jon flinches.

Yesterday's jeans are low on his hips, under his rumpled, unbuttoned shirt. His briefs are hanging loosely out of his back pocket.

"I was just, um, getting some ice. Iced coffee is so much better than hot, you know? In the morning." Jon's voice sounds high and strained to his own ears.

"Sure, yeah, I get that." Dan takes an aborted step backwards. "Well, I'm going down. I'll, ahh, see you."

"Yeah. I'm gonna take a shower and-" 

"No rush." Dan eyes Jon for another second, clearly warring a battle within himself, but he eventually turns and heads to the elevator.

Jon doesn't let out the breath he's holding until the elevator doors close behind Dan's back. His heart is beating, tight and panicky; he has no idea how Dan didn't hear it. 

Maybe he did. He certainly didn't miss Jon's wide, dark pupils or the sleep-rumpled hair Lovett's fingers had done nothing to tame.

Jon crosses the two doors down to his own room. It takes three tries to get the door open.

He plugs his phone in, chucks his briefs into the laundry pile next to his suitcase, and falls back on his unused bed.

When he closes his eyes, he can still see Lovett spread out on their bed, sheet hung loose and low on his hips, wincing a little as he stretched the sleep out of his muscles, a small, private grin to go with his assurances that it was a good ache.

When Jon opens his eyes, all he can remember is Dan, his eyes slitted in concern.

Jon is so fucked.

***

Dan has something to say, and Jon's not sure if the stress of waiting outweighs the stress he's going to feel once Dan gathers the nerve to say it.

They spend their day in Seattle at the University of Washington, talking to students and taking questions. Jon almost forgets about his impending doom, until he gets lost in Lovett's impassioned defense of Nancy Pelosi and he feels Dan's eyes on him. Jon forces himself to look away, to Dan, who's tapping his foot thoughtfully against the rung of his chair.

Jon tries not to look at Lovett for the rest of the day. Which lasts about as long as he'd expect it to, which is, until Lovett reaches over at dinner to trade half his sandwich for half of Jon's salad.

"Good thing I wasn't going to eat that," Jon tells him.

Lovett shrugs, pressing his ankle against Jon's under the table. "I'm watching out for your health. Cholesterol can be an issue in men of your age. Your doctor will thank you."

"13 months," Jon tells him, "there's only 13 months between us."

He doesn't pull his ankle away. Which is- fucking stupid, if he's honest. Dan is peering at them both over his own chicken salad - a good compromise that, really, both Jon and Lovett should consider a little more often - and Dan isn't stupid.

Not nearly as stupid as Jon is. He's so far gone on this, this- whatever the fuck this is. This hook-up turned months-long comfort sex. This one-night stand that has become the most meaningful relationship Jon's ever had, even if he's the only one who thinks so. Even if Jon's the only one who actually thinks about it, ever. 

He's so far gone that he can't deny Lovett even the smallest of touches, not even with his self-preservation on the line.

He has absolutely no chance of turning Lovett away when he knocks on Jon's door, an hour or so after they all go to bed, saying "I'm still buzzing from the show" and pulling Jon into a wet, messy promise of a kiss.

He doesn't actually get the chance to turn Lovett down when they arrive in San Francisco the next afternoon and he points to the oyster bar across from the theater and suggests, "after show snack?" Dan does it for him.

"Actually," Dan claps Jon on the shoulder, "Jon and I have some work to do. Said he'd help me out with some consulting stuff."

"Um." Jon wets his lips, begs his voice to work around the pulse in his throat. "Yeah, right, I'd almost forgotten."

"Howli's making dinner. She'd be awfully upset with me if we didn't show up."

"Of course, of course."

Lovett shrugs, throwing an arm loosely around Tommy's shoulders and even now - even with Dan's fingers digging into his collarbone - Jon's chest burns. "That's cool. Leave us out of your stupid consultancy work. Tommy and I will be eating oysters and rubbing elbows with the real people."

Tommy rolls his eyes. "All those working class people, shucking oysters after attending a live recording of a progressive political podcast."

"We're the Voice of The Resistance, Tommy."

Tommy laughs. "Never gets old."

"So you say," Dan quips, letting Jon go. Jon stumbles a little, and doesn't say anything.

***

"That was a great show," Howli says, greeting them in the doorway with a kiss for Dan and a hug for Jon that turns into a punch in his arm. "It's been way too long since you've been here."

"I know, I know." Jon toes off his shoes and hangs his jacket in the mudway. "Things have been a little crazy. Did Dan tell you that it took us three - I repeat, three - tries before we did the incorporation paperwork correctly?"

She laughs. "He did share that piece of comedy, yes."

"And that's not the worst of it," Jon promises as he pads into the kitchen behind her. 

It's warm and bright, cleaned once a week by a cleaning lady but not exactly tidy. Dan's house has always reminded Jon of his house growing up, welcoming and open, with fresh flowers and big, lumpy blankets thrown haphazardly over the back of the couch. Despite his efforts, Jon has never been quite successful in building the same home-y feeling into his own house. Not like the feeling he gets here. Not like the feeling he gets at Lovett's, who's natural disorganization instincts have built a welcoming, lived-in home that Jon, despite himself, is starting to feel like his.

He pushes that thought deep down, and offers, "can I help? I'm not great with anything, like, stove related, but I can chop things."

Howli glances over Jon's shoulder, and then Dan's hand is on him. "We're on grill duty. Come on."

He grabs a big, wooden board piled high with flank steak and vegetable kabobs, and shoves it into Jon's chest. Then he swipes the bottle of whiskey and two glasses that Howli laid out on the counter, and leads the way out to the back deck.

"Here," Dan says, pouring the whiskey and handing Jon an extra-full glass. "You're going to need this."

"I'm not going to like this much, am I?"

"That depends." Dan shrugs, bending down to check the charcoal. His back is tighter than Jon's seen it in a while. "Are you sleeping with Lovett?"

Jon chokes.

"Yeah, I thought so." Dan lights the charcoal, settling the grill to warm up, before leaning against the railing and crossing his arms across his chest. "You're probably not going to like this very much, then, no."

"It's not-" Jon's not sure how he wants to finish that. 

_It's not what you think._

_It's not anything worth talking about._

_It's not something I want to talk about._

He tosses them all aside, and says nothing.

Dan continues, anyway. "Does anyone else know?"

Jon shakes his head.

"Yeah, I, ahh, figured. So it falls to me to- Look, I'm not going to pretend that this is, like, an easy conversation for me," Dan says, so seriously, and something hard and painful settles deep into Jon's chest. "But, as a silent partner with no monetary stake but a lot of other stakes in this business, it's my obligation to make sure that you're not about to fuck it up royally."

Jon sucks in a deep, unsteady breath-

"Also," Dan continues, "I want to make sure that you're okay? Or some approximation therein?"

\- and let's it out.

Jon takes a step back, finding the first flat surface - a hard, wooden deck chair - and sitting down, a little unsteadily. His glass wobbles in his hands, spilling whiskey across his sleeve. The whiskey smells strong and bitter, and he takes a long, fortifying sip. And coughs.

"Sorry." Dan frowns. "Figured we'd need the strong stuff."

Jon coughs a little more. "Yeah, ahh," he blinks his eyes, "I fucking hate whiskey."

Dan laughs. "All those times we stayed up late in your office, celebrating legislative victories with a bottle of Jameson?"

"Yeah, I dumped my glasses in that ficus tree next to my desk." Jon shrugs, apologetically. "And stole half of whatever sweet Rosé shit Lovett was drinking."

Dan keeps laughing. "I can't believe I never knew that."

"Honestly? I always thought you did, but were too kind to say anything."

"Does that sound like me?"

"No, no, not really." Jon chuckles, ending on a deep sigh. He glances down at his glass, swirling the whiskey for a long minute before braving a second, fortifying sip. "I think- I mean, I'm pretty sure- Look, I know this is the craziest thing I've ever said, and Trump is president and everything is shitty every day, but, maybe, I'm the happiest I've ever been?"

Dan sobers, resting his glass against the railing and eyeing Jon critically. "Yeah."

"I mean, it's not-" It's been almost five months, but Jon hasn't talking about this with anyone but Leo and Pundit, and he's not entirely sure how to fit the right words together to express the jumble of feelings in his chest. It's an uncomfortable place to be in, for a professional wordsmith. "It's not, like, a thing-thing. We haven't talked about- It's a sex thing. A Donald Trump-induced sex thing that's, ahh, been happening more and more lately. Which is great. Mind-blowing, really. But not, like-"

"Breathe."

"Yeah." Jon sighs. "You don't seem surprised about this?"

"I've wondered, a time or two," Dan shrugs. "I mean, I've seen him talk. How can anyone not wonder?"

Jon laughs a little desperately.

Dan finishes off his glass and crosses to Jon, taking the other deck chair. "You know," he says, thoughtfully, as he fills their glasses. "We had a bet going on, back at the very beginning. During the transition, even, maybe. About who on the staff would have the first White House fling? Yours and Lovett's names came up a lot."

"I did not know that," Jon says, slowly, then, curiously, "We did?"

Dan nods. "Tommy even had some money riding on it."

"Tommy? Fuck. Tommy."

"Yeah." Dan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You have terrible fucking timing, you know that, right?"

Jon laughs, a little watery.

"This is probably a terrible fucking idea and if it crashes and burns, this company is probably on the line-"

Jon swallows.

"And," Dan pauses, shaking his head. "This company is fucking important. Probably the most important thing you and Tommy and Lovett will ever do."

"Fuck."

"But," Dan continues, ignoring him, "that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it. Because this is important, too."

Jon takes a shaky breath, and his voice is low and unsteady. "I'm so far gone, I don't know what way is up, most days."

"Yeah, I figured." Dan reaches over, patting Jon's knee. "There's nothing wrong with that, as long as you tell him, before this blows up in your faces and takes the company with it."

Jon reaches blindly for his glass, finishing it off as he blinks his eyes dry. "It's not like that. I'm not- He doesn't want that. He wants- He's just blowing off some steam."

"Did he say that?"

"No." Jon pulls his knee out of Dan's touch. "But he doesn't have to. I've seen the kinds of guys he dates for real. Young, pretty comedians straight off the set of the Improv, who can go with him to fancy Hollywood parties up in the Hills."

"You dress up nicely," Dan says, pursing his lips. "And when was the last time Lovett even went to a party he had to wear more than sweatpants to? How often is that happening?"

Jon shrugs.

"I think," Dan says, sternly. "That you're being awfully unfair to Lovett. I don't know what Lovett you've been hanging out with, but he's never been the shallow Hollywood social climber you're caricaturing."

"I know, but-"

"You need to get your own head on straight," Dan interrupts. "Because you owe it to him - and to Tommy and I and Tanya and all the other people who are really counting on Crooked Media - to give him a fucking chance."

"Hey guys." Howli slides the screen door open and pokes her head out. "The rice is almost ready. How's the meat coming?"

Dan gets up, crossing to the grill. "I'm just about to put the steak on." 

Dan smiles at her, and, fuck, if that's the way Jon looks at Lovett, he's so screwed.

Howli smiles back, then closes the door. Jon finishes off his second glass.

Dan carefully arranges the kabobs and the steak on the grill, his voice light as he asks. "So, do you think Marco Rubio will even try to save this ACA repeal bill, like he promised?"

Jon grasps onto the change of subject like a lifeline. "Fuck, no."

***

"Oh my god," Lovett calls, the moment Jon closes the front door behind him a few days after they get back from San Francisco. "Get in here, you have to see this."

Leo wags his tail and Jon lets him loose from his leash, following Lovett's voice into the family room. Lovett's spread out on the couch, dressed in low-slung sweatpants and a Friend of the Pod shirt. He raises his legs so Jon can slip under them, then drops his feet into Jon's lap.

Leo joins Pundit on the carpet, staring forlornly at the ball in her mouth.

"Donald Trump," Lovett says, pausing the TV, "just fucking told Lester Holt that he fired Comey because of the Russia investigate." He grins, so wide his cheeks puff out, flushed and happy. "I'm gonna rewind. You need to watch this whole thing."

Jon slips his fingers around Lovett's bare feet, tracing circles along the arch of his feet and massaging his ankle joints. On the screen, Donald Trump tells Lester Holt that-

"'When I decided to fire Comey,'" Lovett parrots, pausing the TV over Trump's face, "'I said to myself, I said, you know, this Russia thing with Trump and Russia is a made up story'."

Jon pushes Lovett's sweatpants higher so he can massage his lower calves. "That's akin to admitting he fired Comey because of the Russia investigation."

"No shit. Seriously, we don't even need a Resistance. Trump is going to bring the FBI crashing down around his head without our help."

"Well," Jon grins, trailing his fingers higher. Lovett spreads his knees, showing off an obvious tent in his sweatpants. "We can give him a little push, right? We deserve to have a little bit of fun in this whole clusterfuck."

"Why, Mr. Favreau, you spoil me so."

Jon laughs, pulling at Lovett's ankles until he shifts down the couch. "Anything for you, Lovett," Jon murmurs as he leans down to kiss him.

He has his hands halfway down Lovett's sweatpants when Pundit barks, resting her chin next to Lovett's ear, eyes drooping.

"Shit." Lovett pushes himself up regretfully, grabbing Jon's shoulder for leverage. "She hasn't been out in hours. We should probably let them out for a little bit, before we get any farther."

Jon grunts, adjusting his jeans before following Lovett outside.

In the few days since they got home from San Francisco, he's thought a lot about what Dan said. He's not wrong, really. For the sake of their company - for Dan and Tanya and, fuck, for Tommy - he owes it to them all to tell Lovett how he feels. But when he looks at Lovett, crouched down in the grass, trying to reason the ball out of Leo's mouth while Pundit licks his face-

This is so close to what Jon wants. So dream-adjacent to all the things Jon wanted when he was a kid, when he thought about the kind of life he could build for himself someday. This might be the closest Jon's ever going to get, and he can't risk losing it. If it's a little rough around the edges- well, Jon gets what Dan was saying, he really does, but Lovett's on his back, fighting off their dogs with laughter and feeble cries of "ew, that's slobbery, just because it's your prime possession, Leo, doesn't mean it's mine," and that's enough for Jon. 

He crosses the yard, crouching down next to Lovett and grabbing the ball. He chucks it across the yard and watches the dogs race after it.

Lovett grabs his knee to pull himself up, still laughing as he lifts his chin for a kiss. 

Jon's pretty sure, at this point, that he'd grant Lovett anything he asks for. And if this is what Lovett is asking for - to keep this easy, simple, a haven in a crazy fucking year - then it's something Jon's willing to give him. 

Jon leans down to meet him for a quick kiss, before the dogs are back on them, dropping the ball in Lovett's lap.

"You know," Lovett tells them, picking it up between his fingertips, "this thing is gross."

Pundit's tail wags. Leo steps forward, whining.

"Yeah, they don't care." Lovett throws it into the corner of the yard and pulls Jon down into the grass with him.

***

In late June, the entire Crooked Media crew if supposed to head to Aspen for the Aspen Ideas Festival. It's the same week, though, as the Healthcare Rally in DC, so they decide, instead, to split forces. So, Lovett heads to Aspen to represent both Pod Save America and Lovett or Leave It, while Tommy and Jon head to DC for the rally.

Lovett throws him out early in the morning, dropping Leo onto the bed and saying, "take your dog back to your house and pack there. I can't be expected to pack correctly with all this chaos."

"Yes," Jon says, cuddling Leo to his chest and raising an eyebrow at the clothes strewn around Lovett's bedroom, "I'm the chaos in this situation."

"Whatever." Lovett puts his hands on his hips. He's wearing a Pod Save America shirt that has to be Jon's with how loose it is around Lovett's shoulders and a pair of briefs that twitch when he turns his glare on Jon. "You're not helping."

Jon shifts under the sheets, growing hard against his thigh. "I see. It's not me that's the problem-"

"Yes, yes, it's 100% you."

"-but your inability to control yourself around me."

"Potato, potahto." Lovett palms his erection as he turns back to his closet. "Take your dog and your dick and go before we both miss our flights."

"Fine, fine," Jon sighs, struggling out of bed and into a pair of sweatpants he left here weeks ago. "Remember, we have to drop the dogs off at Andy's on the way."

Lovett rolls his eyes - "I know, I know, that's why you have to _go_ " - but raises his chin for a kiss as Jon passes.

Jon hadn't realized exactly how much time he's been spending at Lovett's until he heads back to his cold, quiet house alone. Leo whines as they enter, crossing the kitchen to where the water bowl is at Lovett's, and sitting, looking forlornly back at Jon.

"I know buddy," Jon says, grabbing the bowl from the other side of the kitchen and filling it before dropping it in front of Leo. He squats, ruffling Leo's ears, "I don't wanna be here much, either."

The bedroom is dark, the bed still unmade since the first morning they were back from San Francisco. Jon opens the curtains, straightens his blankets, and pulls out a suitcase.

***

After a few days in DC, Jon's definitely wishing he had put a little more time and thought into packing.

He hadn't really been expecting to spend eight hours in the DC heat at an impromptu healthcare rally when he packed a pair of khaki shorts and one of his tighter Repeal and Go Fuck Yourself shirts. In retrospect, he's actually pretty sure that he pealed the shirt off of Lovett's bedroom floor, and it's as likely to be his as it is Jon's. Would explain the way the sleeves ride up, at least.

On the other hand, no size of Go Fuck Yourself t-shirt is really appropriate to be wearing when interviewing senators about McConnell's zombie healthcare bill. And it's definitely not appropriate for the halls of Congress, but he wasn't about to turn Senator Michael Bennet down when he invited Jon and Tommy up for a recorded chat after the rally.

Jon's never been so happy to be hosting an audio-based show.

"Fuck." Tommy says as he falls into a booth at the Washington Hilton afterwards, dropping his head back against the cushions. "It's so fucking- "

"Swampy," Jon offers.

"Yes, swampy." Tommy groans. "This is why you're the speechwriter and I'm the-" He waves his hand. "Whatever the fuck I am."

"A foreign policy expert?"

"Yeah, that. I think I need some water." Tommy tries to swallow. "Yeah, I definitely need some water."

Jon waves a waiter over and orders a round of waters and beers.

They're just starting to feel human again when Alyssa joins them halfway through the second round. "I'm sweating in places I didn't know I could sweat," she tells them, her hand moving frantically to fan her face.

Jon laughs, the plastic of the bench squelching as he gets up to hug her. "We can get you some TommyJohns, if that'd help."

"I might actually take you up on that." She slides into the booth and steals Jon's water, downing it in one go. "How was the rally?"

"Good, good. You know how Lovett's always saying that journalism is easy?" Tommy asks. "Well, he's not totally off. We couldn't walk a foot without running, literally, into a congressperson."

"Like Debbie Wasserman Schultz."

"Like Debbie Wasserman Schultz," Tommy agrees. "We sort of bowled her over, then asked for an interview."

Jon shrugs. "She granted it."

"She did."

"But," Jon motions towards the suitcase next to him, "we did discover that podcasting equipment isn't, like, great to lug around a crowded rally in late-June heat."

"Jon ran over a few toes."

"And Tommy almost got us arrested a few times."

Alyssa drops her chin into her palm and grins at them. "Oh, please, do tell me more."

Tommy shrugs, nonchalantly. "We may have been recording in a few places that we shouldn't have been. Who knew DC had so many zoning laws?"

"Everyone." Alyssa laughs. "Literally everyone."

"Fine, whatever. I've never been so glad to have moved out West." Tommy perks up. "We did, however, get called up on stage to speak and Jon rambled for, like, ten minutes about fuck knows what."

"Democracy. Freedom. The power of protesting. You know, the old standards."

Alyssa chuckles. "God I hope that ends up on YouTube. Lovett'll laugh about it for years."

Jon thinks about Lovett searching for them on YouTube from his hotel room in Aspen and flushes a little.

Alyssa tilts her head, raising an eyebrow. "Where is Lovett, anyway?"

"Aspen," Tommy supplies, as Jon hides behind his mostly-empty beer. "Holding down the fort at the Aspen Ideas Fest."

"Fancy," Alyssa whistles. "Wouldn't that have been a better gig for a boat shoe like yourself?"

Tommy groans. "Sometimes, I really wish you didn't listen to the Pod."

Jon laughs, motioning the waiter over so they can order another round and enough appetizers to feed half the restaurant.

"So," Alyssa says, shaking her head as she wipes her calamari-greased hands on her napkin. "You guys are looking good. I saw Dan a few weeks back- he said you all looked young and tan, and I told him it was impossible to look so good just a few months into launching a new company. The Gods passed out, like, extra sunshine the day you were born. It's not fucking fair."

Tommy chuckles. "We feel good. We're getting paid to talk about the same shit in public that we used to do in private, and people actually care, for some god-forsaken reason. It's going better than we ever dreamed."

"And we yell on Twitter all day. It's our dream job. And we're getting paid for it."

"Well-" Tommy corrects. "We're not actually making salaries yet, but we are moving into office space. And hiring people. Like a real fucking company."

"Who knew?"

Alyssa laughs at them fondly. "I'm proud of you. We all are. My boys have grown up."

Tommy flushes, reaching out with his fork to scoop brussel sprouts and bacon onto his plate, and admits, quietly. "I'm going to ask Hanna to marry me."

Alyssa crows. "When? How? Wow, finally, you really are growing up." She leans forward, eyes gleaming. "Tell me all the details."

Tommy launches into the plans, and Jon slips his phone under the table, typing out _how is Aspen?_ and sending it.

"And you?" Alyssa asks, turning all her attention on Jon. "LA's most eligible bachelor. You have anything you'd like to tell us about?"

Jon blinks up at her. He's lost the lead of the conversation, but she's looking at him with a knowing glint that he doesn't feel at all comfortable with. "Ahh, no, I'm, you know, starting a media company. Keeps me pretty busy."

His phone buzzes against his thigh and he glances down at the photo of Lovett in Jon's car, his face tucked between Pundit and Leo. Lovett's caller ID photo. Jon let's it go to voicemail.

"Sure, sure," Alyssa agrees. "But don't let life pass you by while you're looking the other way. I almost did and, boy, let me tell you what a mistake that would have been."

Jon's phone buzzes again. Tommy glances at it, and Jon flushes, flipping it upside down on the booth next to his leg.

"No, I know. But this, for the next few years, while Trump is president-" _and while Lovett will take me, for as long as Lovett will take me_ \- "Crooked Media is the most important thing I can be doing."

Alyssa holds up her hands, palms out. "Okay, okay, I know when to stop pushing. Anyone want dessert? I could really do with some chocolate cake."

"Ah." Tommy's eyes go glassy. "Remember when we used to come here right before it closed, after late nights in the West Wing? God, nothing's ever tasted as good as that chocolate cake."

"So, one slice and three forks?"

Jon's phone starts buzzing for a third time, and he tosses his napkin on the table. "Actually, I'm feel pretty tired. Long day, with the heat and all. You two enjoy."

Tommy and Alyssa give him identical bemused looks, but they don't stop him as he stands.

"Tommy, will you-?"

Tommy waves him away. "Yeah, I got it. Cash App me back later."

"Yep." He pulls Alyssa into a one-armed hug, his phone still clutched in his hand and buzzing against her shoulder. "It was so great to see you. Come out to LA some time, do a Pod in person."

She grins. "Send me an itinerary, and I'll be there with bells on."

"Will do." Jon walks backwards for a few steps, before turning on his heel and sliding his phone open as he heads for the elevator. "Hey. How's Aspen?"

"Ritzy." Lovett sounds more than a little relieved that Jon's answered. "How's DC?"

"Swampy."

Lovett laughs, and Jon can hear Lovett's hotel room snick shut. "I had to get away. These people are very well meaning, but they're also very serious."

"Aren't they, like, curing cancer and solving the Middle East Peace Process and shit?"

"I didn't say they weren't intimidating. I said they're not funny." Another door swishes open and Lovett must be out on his balcony, because Jon can distantly hear the rush of cars and voices. "I put my foot in my mouth more than a few times at dinner. So, I escaped."

It's been awhile since Jon's heard such hesitancy in Lovett's voice. He used to hear it a lot in what Lovett likes to call his lost year, the months in-between The Newsroom's cancellation and Keepin' it 1600, when Lovett was suffering from crippling writer's block and hiding it from everyone, even from Jon.

"And took a quick detour to a dispensary," Lovett continues. "Think I can light up in the Hyatt? I swear, Jon, this hotel is, like, built into the side of the mountain. Bananas."

Jon chuckles. "You're in Colorado, I think you can smoke wherever you'd like."

"Fair point." A lighter clicks, then Lovett sighs. "I like it here. It's like California, but with seasons."

"I like California's season. Dry and sunny."

"And polluted." Lovett's voice is already slowing and softening. 

Jon aches with how much he wants to be there with him. "Sure," he agrees.

"I think, maybe, I could retire here someday? After, you know, we build Crooked Media into a self-sustaining juggernaut and I serve a few terms in office."

He says it like he always does, all bracing confidence and false bravado. Jon's never understood how everyone can miss the oceans of uncertainty and fear floating underneath. He responds in kind. "That's a low bar you're setting yourself."

"It gives me space to overachieve." Lovett shifts in his chair, the rough khaki of his pants crinkling as he moves. "Anyway, Pundit would like it here."

 _I would, too_ , Jon thinks. Instead, he says, "speaking of campaigns, or, sort of speaking of campaigns, Tommy and Alyssa say 'hi'."

Lovett hums. "Stop trying to kill my buzz. You know how I feel about not being included."

"You're in a whole different state. You can't be jealous about this."

"Try me," Lovett challenges, but there's no heart in it. He takes another long draw from his joint and coughs a little.

"Besides," Jon continues, "I left them with dessert so I could come up here and ask _you_ what you're wearing?"

Lovett chokes again. "Did you just-?"

"Can anyone see you, on that balcony?"

"Ahh." Lovett's struggling for indignance, but he can't quite reach it. "The rooms around me are dark."

"Good. Take another hit."

Obediently, Lovett takes a deep breath in and blows it out. Jon can hear every sound Lovett's making, like, somehow, the phone is adding a layer of intimacy between them. Jon wonders, idly, if it's possible to get a contact high over the phone.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," Lovett sighs out, and Jon pictures him lying back on the lounge chair. "Loose, buzzed. Pretty horny, now."

"Are you touching yourself?" Jon is answered with silence. "You have to speak to me, babe, remember? I can't see you."

"Right, shit. Jon?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm pretty stoned."

Jon laughs. "I know. It's okay. Can you touch yourself for me?"

"Yeah," Lovett breathes out, his voice hitching. "Fuck, Jon, I'm really fucking hard."

"No need to sound so surprised. I am, too." He opens his belt buckle, making sure that it's loud enough to carry over the phone, and palms himself through the open v of his jeans. "You're so fucking hot, Lovett. I've been half-hard all day, just thinking about you."

"Shit." Lovett whines. "Shit, shit, you can't just _say things_ \- It's not fair to spread lies like that. You have no idea how quickly my mind takes them and runs with them."

"Who said I was lying? If you could see me right now-" Jon shifts his hips so he can kick off his jeans.

"I wish I could. I wish- fuck, who thought opposite coasts was a good idea this weekend?"

"You get an F for geography, but an A for effort, so I'm gonna let that one go," Jon chuckles.

"I don't even know what we're talking about anymore. Can I- are you getting undressed?" His voice frowns.

"Yeah," Jon breathes, setting the phone down for a moment so he can strip off his shirt and briefs. "I want to try-" He swallows. "There's been something I've been wanting-" He takes a deep breath. "I've been wanting you to, um, fuck me, so, I thought we could try that?"

Lovett drops the phone. It clatters and hisses, spewing static, and Jon is glad that his is on speaker so it doesn't rupture his eardrum. He takes the opportunity to cross to his suitcase and dig out the bottle of lube he'd packed as a last-minute decision. Not buying the lube - the lube's been sitting in his bedside table for weeks, ever since he wandered, flushed and soft-spoken, into the sex shop down the street from their office and asked about the pros and cons of different brands - but packing it.

The phone is still staticky when he gets back. "Lovett?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here." Lovett's voice crackles back in, his breath coming quickly. "You can't just- Fuck, Jon, you can't just drop something like that on me."

"Sorry," Jon tells him, not sorry at all.

"It's just- I'm so fucking stoned, and this is a big decision. I don't want you to think you have to. I mean, we can keep doing what we've been doing. What we've been doing is good. What we've been doing is fucking amazing-"

"If you don't feel comfortable, you don't have to," Jon says, already putting his phone on speaker again and rolling onto his stomach. "But I'd really like you to walk me through it."

"Of course I want to." Lovett shifts, bringing the phone closer to his mouth. "This is fucking nuts, but okay. Okay."

"I already have the lube," Jon tells him, opening it loud enough so Lovett can hear.

Lovett's breath hitches. "Such a boy scout."

"I like to be prepared." Jon squeezes a dollop into his palm. "In fact, I've been prepared for a few weeks now. Just, biding my time."

"Have you-?" Lovett swallows. "Have you practiced at home?"

Jon shakes his head, then remembers to say, "no."

"Okay," Lovett says, then repeats, like he's shaking himself with the words, "okay. Good thing you have the lube then. Use a lot of it. And turn onto your stomach. That'll- that'll be easier."

"Already there."

Lovett groans. "Fuck."

"I'm trying," Jon teases him, "if you'd, you know, ever move this along a little."

"Patience is a virtue. Also, a requirement, since I'm not exactly running at full speed right now," Lovett grumbles. "Sorta wish you'd run this plan by me before the joint."

Jon chuckles and doesn't tell him that Jon's not sure he would have brought it up at all, if not for the easy, soothing edges of the joint, even if he's not the one smoking it. "My index finger is lubed," he says, instead.

"Cool cool cool cool. Index finger is good." Lovett's voice is loud over the streets sounds, and he immediately drops it. "Go slow. Slow is good, too."

Jon spreads his knees, giving himself a better angle as he reaches back. His muscles are strung taught, and even with the lube it's hard to get even the tip of his finger in. He grunts.

"How's it feel?"

Jon grits his teeth. "Tight."

"Yeah, it's, ahh, going to, at first. The first bit is the hardest."

Jon keeps grunting as he eases a little more in.

"Just breathe, slowly," Lovett demonstrates and Jon mirrors him, "and press back a little."

Jon shifts his knees and presses his hips back. His finger breeches the first ring of muscles and- Jon gasps a little. 

Lovett laughs. "Better?"

"Yeah. Fuck." Jon drops his head, peering down his body where his dick is growing against his thigh. "I'm getting hard again. That's a good sign."

"If I was there," Lovett huffs, "I'd be distracting you with a blowjob."

"Just keep talking like that and it's plenty distracting." Jon gasps out a laugh. His finger slips in further. "Okay, that's as far as it goes."

"Pull your finger out, then push it back in. Slowly, still. Stretch yourself open for me."

Jon draws his finger a couple inches out, then pushes it back in. His body is hot and wet, not as good as Lovett's feels, but still good. Still so fucking good.

"Yeah, Jon, keep making those noises." Lovett gasps a little, and Jon can hear the rustling of clothes as Lovett slides his pants down. "I can just imagine what you look like. Flushed and gorgeous, so ready for whatever comes next. I never imagined- You're so ready, for anything."

"Yes, tell me, what do I do next?"

"Do you think you're ready for a second?"

"Yes," Jon hisses, pulling his finger out and reaching for the bottle of lube.

'Ready' isn't exactly right, and Jon's still pretty tight as he twists his middle and index fingers together and pushes in. He must make a sound of displeasure, because Lovett mirrors it.

"Careful. No need to rush. God knows this is blazing hot as it is."

Jon's dick jumps, leaking a string of precome between the mattress and his stomach, and his muscles ease enough for his fingers to slide in, unhindered. 

"Jesus." He has to catch himself on his free hand. "Why didn't you tell me this feels so good?"

"Kinda thought I gave that away," Lovett's voice is high and a little strained. "With, you know, the way my face looks whenever we fuck."

Jon twists his fingers, groaning into his bicep. His phone slips down the pillow. "I'm always a little distracted when we're fucking," he reasons. "But now I know you've been holding out on me."

"If I ever thought there was even an inch of a chance-" Lovett stops himself. "Fuck, pot is like truth serum. Can you scissor your fingers? Spread yourself just a little wider?"

Jon spreads his fingers, feeling along the hot walls and scissoring them a little. He feels his muscles loosen and give, wide enough for- 

Fuck. That must have been his prostate. His thighs shake and he drops his elbow to the bed, letting his shoulder take some of his weight.

"I really wish I was there to see you," Lovett whines.

There's a reason why Jon decided to do this over the phone. He's been thinking about it for weeks, but has always chickened out just shy of asking for it. If feels- he was worried that Lovett's face would be too much, too intimate. But now all he wants is for Lovett to be lying next to him, his fingers in Jon's ass, his mouth warm on Jon's. "Next time," he promises.

Lovett's voice is strangled. "There's going to be a next time?"

"Hell yes." Jon twists his fingers. "If this feels like this when it's _my_ fingers, I can only imagine how good it'll be with yours."

Lovett whimpers, and even over the rush in his own ears, Jon can hear the slick sounds of Lovett's hand on his dick. "Please," Lovett moans, his voice breaking over the word, "please tell me you're close."

"So close," Jon drops his forehead to the arm braced against the mattress. "So close. Just- say something, anything-."

"Yeah, Jon, you're so beautiful like this." Lovett's voice cracks a little again, and Jon's dick twitches. "So open for me, so good. Are you waiting for me, Jon? What would you say if I stepped up behind you, slid just the head of my dick in? You're so open and wet, it would just be a little bit of pressure and-"

Jon cries out as he comes, untouched, his dick spurting across his stomach and the ugly floral bedspread.

"Did you-?" Lovett asks, voice dripping with awe. "That did it for you?"

"Oh, yeah." Jon slides his fingers out, wiping them on the quilt next to his come, and making sure to miss the spot as he flips onto his back. He stretches his muscles, feeling the slight twinge in his ass, and grinning. "Yeah, that really does it for me. Who knew?"

"I never- in my wildest imagination- Jon, shit, you're so fucking much."

"It's a difficult job, keeping you on your toes," Jon teases, as his breath, slowly, starts to come back. "Are you still jerking yourself?"

Lovett must nod again, because he doesn't say anything, but Jon can still hear his heavy breathing and wet sounds of skin on skin.

"If you were here," Jon tries, closing his eyes so he can hear even the smallest of sounds through the phone, "I'd let you put more than just the tip in. You'd feel so good in me, Jon. I'd maybe even let you set the rhythm."

Lovett chokes off a moan. "Doubtful."

Jon shrugs. "Yeah, probably not. But you'd like that, wouldn't you? Me pushing back into you, moving my hips in time with yours, pushing you deeper, deeper, as deep as you can fucking go. Your dick is perfect, Jon. I've been dreaming about it for so long I forget, sometimes, that you haven't even fucked me yet."

Lovett let's out a serious of unintelligible cries, and then he falls silent, their breathing the only thing Jon can hear.

"You okay?" Jon asks, finally.

Lovett chuckles, a little breathlessly, and Jon hears the click of the lighter as Lovett takes a hit from the long-forgotten joint. "That's the understatement of the fucking century."

"So, you think-" Jon asks, feeling, suddenly, shy again as he open his eyes and glances down his naked body. He really wishes Lovett were there with him. "Maybe, when we can get back to LA, we can try that for real sometime?"

"You're trying to kill me, aren't you? Donald Trump is going to destroy our democracy but it's not even going to matter, because you, Jon Favreau, are going to kill me first."

"Is that a yes?"

"Fuck yes, it's a yes." Lovett takes another hit, and his voice is slipping into slow and sleepy. "I get back Sunday night."

"I'll bring a bottle of wine." Jon smiles to himself. "Are you still on the balcony? You probably shouldn't fall asleep naked out there."

Lovett laughs, coughing a little around his next hit. "After what we just did out here, that's the least of my problems. But, yeah, I'm going inside."

Jon wants to ask him to stay on the phone until they fall asleep, but that sounds like a step too far, even in his own mind. Instead he says, "I'm glad you called."

"Yeah." Jon can hear Lovett's loose smile. "Yeah, me too. And, thank you, I was a little wound up and-"

"Any time." Jon smiles back. He lifts his hips so he can push the stained bedspread to the floor, then falls back against the pillows. He reaches over to turn off the light. "Call me tomorrow before the show?"

"Sure." Lovett pauses, and Jon's almost certain he's going to say something else, but he settles on, "'night."

"'Night, Lovett."

***

Jon returns to LA feeling energized about the protests and good about the relationship between Democratic politicians, the activated base, and the future of universal healthcare.

As July drags on, though, those positive feelings slip away in the endless sludge of Trump administration-ending scandals-turned trivialities.

The Mooch. 

A mostly-unsuccessful trip to Europe that culminated in often-vulgar depictions of himself and Putin. 

Don, Jr. all but admitting to the Russia stuff.

"God," Lovett says, falling back on Jon's couch, not taking his eyes off his Twitter feed. "I almost miss Spicey."

Jon raises an eyebrow over his tablet from where he's sitting at the dining table. "Really?"

"I mean, no." Lovett huffs as Pundit jumps on the couch to curl against his stomach. "But I'm pretty sick of seeing Hope Hicks every day. Melissa McCarthy doesn't play her nearly as well."

"SNL skits." Jon shakes his head. "Someday, that's all we'll have to judge a presidency by."

"Don't even joke about that. Need I remind you what happened to Icarus?"

"Didn't he fly too close to the sun?" Jon deadpans.

"All I'm saying," Lovett argues, "is that pissing off the God on top of the hill or whatever probably isn't a good idea right now. We've already pissed off enough gods, apparently."

"Well, we're about to find out." Jon grabs his phone and moves into the living room, reaching for the remote and switching the TV to C-SPAN. "They're about to take the vote."

"Fuck." Lovett scrambles up, sitting cross-legged on the couch and making room for Jon next to him. "I've been nauseous since Tuesday, waiting for this vote."

Jon sits under Lovett's knee - "I could tell by that whole pizza you ate on Wednesday" - and pulls Leo onto the couch on his other side.

Lovett glares at him. "Tommy wasn't eating his share."

"Tommy has an engagement coming up. He has to watch his figure."

Lovett waves him away. "Hanna should love him for who he is, not what he could be if he started starving himself of the good things in life."

"Like pizza."

"Pizza. Chocolate cake. Dark alcohols."

Jon raises an eyebrow at the glasses on Lovett's coffee table. "Getting a little sick of all the vodka sodas?" He guesses.

"It's not easy going on TV with you two assholes."

"Is that why you've been going to Barry's Bootcamp, like, every other day?"

Lovett shifts his eyes, pressing his knee further into Jon's thigh as he leans forward to grab his aforementioned vodka soda from the coffee table. "On Thursdays, I only say I'm going, but I really take Pundit to that new cafe on Wilshire. They have breakfast bones and she really like them."

Pundit raises her head at her name, and Jon reaches across Lovett to scratch behind her ears. "What's a breakfast bone?"

"I don't really know, but they smell like bacon. They're fucking awful, but she goes wild for them."

"You know," Jon says, mock-thoughtfully, "if we were getting engagement photos, I wouldn't care what you looked like. Only how you looked at me."

"Are you saying," Lovett asks, just as faux-seriously, "that I'm beautiful just the way I am? 'Cause, let me tell you, I fucking hate squats and your approval is all I need to let myself go."

"Yeah," Jon swallows, dipping his hand into Lovett's waistband to cover the way his voice cracks, a little. He cups Lovett's dick and it fills his palm, in every way Jon has ever cared about. "You're thick in all the places that matter."

Lovett shifts, spreading his knees a little wider. "Too bad that wouldn't show in any engagement photos."

"Who says it wouldn't?"

Lovett hardens just a little, as Jon rubs his thumb under the head. "Where were you hiding this kinky side all those years? If I had known-"

"What?" Jon squeezes and Lovett groans. "You would have come to the White House in a glittering thong?"

"Now, that's an image." Lovett chuckles. "No, but I might have taken you to a club once or twice. Maybe a Pride Parade." _We may have started this sooner_. "You would look fucking fantastic in a glittering thong."

"Really?"

Lovett laughs, pushing Jon's sideways. Jon pulls his hands out of Lovett's sweatpants, catching himself before he squashes Leo. Leo huffs, jumping off the couch and giving Jon a look that is so similar to the one Dan gives him when he's being particularly thick that Jon has to chuckle.

He settles on his back, pulling Lovett between his legs. Leo jumps onto the other side of the couch, curling against Lovett's feet and resting his head in the curve of Pundit's neck.

"What happens," Lovett asks, quietly, "if this works?"

Jon rests his cheek in Lovett's curls. "Tens of millions of people lose their healthcare."

Lovett wraps his fingers around Jon's forearm. "Yeah."

"And we keep fighting. We take back the House, and we pass it again."

"Single payer this time, maybe."

"Yeah."

"We need to take that gavel out of Paul Ryan's fucking hands."

Jon laughs. "Yeah, we do."

***

"To McCain." Tommy toasts as he raises his glass a few hours later.

Lovett clinks their glasses together. "Nine parts hero. One part troll."

A cheer echoes through the bar. On one of the TVs above the counter CNN shows McCain giving a thumbs down to skinny repeal, on the other the Dodgers score a two-run homer. Jon's not quite sure which the cheer was for, but he doesn't really care. "Fucking West Hollywood."

"This is what we've been waiting for all our lives," Lovett says, leaning against the bar. The lines of his back pull at his t-shirt. "For Democracy to become the national pastime. I finally feel like I can fit in at a sports bar."

"So, this is what _you_ were dreaming about at college keggers?" Tommy asks.

Jon snorts into his glass. 

Lovett glares at both of them. "If I had been invited to any college keggers, then, yeah, this is exactly what I would have been dreaming about."

"I can't tell," Tommy says, tilting his head thoughtfully, "if that's really inspirational or kinda sad."

"I'm a paradox." Lovett shrugs. "Also, you're the one that called us out here at midnight on a Thursday night to fucking celebrate a Senate vote."

Tommy shrugs. "We share the same trauma."

"Ahh, Tommy, that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me. Next round's on me." He pats his pockets. "Or on Jon. I think I forgot my wallet?"

Jon shakes his head, but he does hand over his credit card the next time the bartender passes them.

"Shit." Tommy takes his drink and looks down at his phone. "Hanna's calling from SF. I've gotta-"

Jon waves him away, stepping up closer to Lovett at the bar the moment Tommy disappears. "Is the sports bar experience everything you dreamed it would be?"

"I've been to a sports bar before." Lovett rolls his eyes, then shifts them away. "I've just never, you know, fit in before."

Jon's chest flips and he kinda wishes he had stopped at the first drink. He drops his head so he can whisper in Lovett's ear. "There is one sports bar experience that would really help you fit in."

Lovett glances around the half-crowded bar. "As nice as that sounds, we're sort of in public."

"Mmm." Jon hums. "Bathrooms are private."

"Sort of."

"This is West Hollywood. Bathrooms are as private as we need."

"Honestly, I am finding out so many kinky things about you tonight," he says, but he does grab his drink and follow Jon as he weaves his way through the crowd. He drinks half his glass as they squeeze into the - thankfully single - bathroom. "This is fucking insane."

Jon puts his glass on the sink and pulls Lovett towards him, tugging at his waistband and slipping his hand into Lovett's sweats. "Your dick doesn't seem to have any objections."

Lovett rolls his eyes. "My dick gets hard just looking at your stupid face. It's not a great barometer."

Jon hums, pushing his own pants down his thighs and getting his hand around both of them. "Less talking, more kissing. Tommy's not gonna be talking to Hanna forever."

"Fuck." Lovett wraps his arms around Jon's shoulders, his glass bumping against Jon's neck as he pulls Jon down. His mouth tastes like Vodka and he whimpers as Jon bites down on his lower lip. "I can't believe," he breathes, "that John fucking McCain does it for you."

"Saving healthcare for millions of people does it for me," Jon corrects. "And your face isn't so bad, either."

Lovett twitches in his hand, his dick flexing against Jon's even as he grunts in disagreement. "If you're like this now, it doesn't bare thinking about what you were like when you had an actual hand in policy making. Suddenly those shirtless beer pong pictures are making a lot more sense."

Jon twists his wrist, his own hips jerking against Lovett's. "I was a little uptight back then."

"No shit." Lovett tightens his free hand in Jon's hair, bending his body even closer. Jon can feel him trembling, and knows that he's as close as Jon is. "I like this version of you better."

"I don't know." Jon bites a kiss into the edge of Lovett's jaw, where his ear will shadow the mark. "You seemed to like that version of me just fine."

Lovett gasps, dropping his forehead to Jon's shoulder so he can look down at the heads of their dicks leaking into Jon's fist. "You're like a cockroach," he says, fondly, "I couldn't get rid of you."

"And you wonder why people ask if I like you or not."

"If they only knew." Lovett chuckles breathlessly. "Fuck, Jon, right there. Yeah, fuck, I'm so fucking close."

"Me too," Jon admits. "Kiss me."

Lovett raises his head, and Jon drowns his cries in Lovett's mouth as he jerks and comes between their chests. Lovett follows him over the edge.

"Well, fuck." Lovett takes a step back, dropping his glass on the edge of the sink and grabbing a wad of paper towel. He takes Jon's hand and cleans his fingers. "Always good to do new things in my mid-thirties."

Jon laughs, letting Lovett tuck him back in, before grabbing both their glasses and following him back into the bar. 

"There you are." Tommy narrows his eyes at them critically. "I thought you'd abandoned me."

Lovett flushes red. Jon shrugs. "We wouldn't do that. We were just in the bathroom."

Tommy shrugs, a little too hard. "Well, I got another round. And Hanna says hi."

***

In the wake of Hurricane Harvey, Alyssa flies into town for a panel on disaster relief. Dan joins them for a rare in-studio Thursday Pod, and they both stay the weekend for Tommy's birthday/Labor Day BBQ.

Jon and Lovett are in charge of the meat, so early the morning of the BBQ Jon takes Leo with him to the Italian butcher a few blocks away to stock up on ribs and burgers.

"Fuck meat is expensive," he complains as he gets back to the house, struggling to open the door around the heavy bags in both his hands. 

Leo scratches at the door jamb, racing in the moment it opens and tackling Pundit as if he hasn't seen her in days rather than an hour. As if they haven't spent half the last week on Lovett's couch and just as many nights in Lovett's bed. 

Sometimes, Jon thinks vaguely, it would be nice if Leo didn't showcase Jon's most embarrassing qualities for everyone to see.

"Did you get hot dogs? I really want a hot dog. Or three."

"No," Jon says, slowly, as he dumps the bags on the kitchen island. "I got good quality meat, cause this is Tommy's birthday, not his death day party."

"You _were_ awake for some of the Harry Potter movies," Lovett grins as he wanders into the kitchen, his voice muffled in the American flag t-shirt he's still pulling over his head.

"For at least three of them," Jon deadpans.

"Good. We only have four to go then. I was worried we'd have to start over at the beginning." He peers into the bags. "I don't think hot dogs would be out of line. This is as much a Labor Day party as it is a birthday party."

Jon eyes Lovett's shirt and his flag Van's. "So I see."

"What?" Lovett glances down at himself. "We can't be patriotic now that we've elected our worst person president?"

"It's just a look," Jon shrugs.

"Whatever, I'm not going to change. Back to the hot dogs-"

Jon rolls his eyes. "We'll stop on the way. Are the dogs ready?"

"Yeah." Lovett bends down, clicking both their leashes into place. Then he grabs the giant bag he's packed full of dog supplies, and heads out to Jon's car. It's so fucking domestic- Jon watches, stupidly, as Lovett helps the dogs into the passenger seat, following behind them and opening his window so they can stick their heads out.

Jon shakes his head, and follows. 

He pulls into the Vons down their street, idling in a front row parking spot so Lovett can run in. Pundit watches him go, then climbs into Jon's lap. She whines, pawing at the window, and Leo curls into Lovett's warm spot, his eyes big and sad as he stares up at Jon.

"He's coming back," Jon tells them, burying his fingers in Pundit's fur. "You're both ridiculous."

Pundit wags her tail against his shoulder, turning her head so she can head butt him.

"Yeah," he admits quietly, "it's been 5 minutes, but I miss him, too. We're all pretty fucked," and settles back in to wait.

Predictably, they hear him return before they see them.

"I'm writing a new law," Lovett says, already speaking before he has the door fully open. He drops his grocery bag in the backseat and scoops Leo into his laps as he slides in. "About the express lane. Namely, having under the very clearly stated 15 item limit."

"I actually find that limit very confusing. I have some questions," Jon says, as he shifts Pundit to lie under his arms so he can drive. "Like, let's say you have four grapefruit. Are those one item or four?"

"Are they all in one bag?"

"Sure."

"Then one. One swipe, one item."

"And what if I have five boxes of shredded wheat?"

Lovett grimaces. "Then you're eating sawdust for breakfast for the next month. Also, you have five items."

Jon hums thoughtfully. "But they're all the same."

"But the cashier has to swipe each one. Five swipes, five items."

"What if the cashier can swipe one item, then type in a five?"

"Then you're playing awfully close to the fire. If you can't guarantee that you have under 15 items, then you should be in the regular lane. With the regular people. Who, like, buy real carts of groceries. Leave the express lane for us sad losers who only need to pick up a bottle of wine and a pint of Haagen Dazs and some damn hot dogs."

Jon glances over at him. "We could try Blue Apron," he offers.

Lovett snorts. "Yeah? And who would cook it?"

"Fair point." Jon turns onto Tommy's street and parks the car. "Maybe one of those frozen meal delivery places?"

"Now that has potential." Lovett climbs out of the car, catching Leo's leash and reaching into the back for the hot dogs and the dog bag. "We should think about trading in Blue Apron for a more practical sponsor."

"Hopefully everyone isn't as helpless as us."

"My oven is the biggest clock in my house."

"I know. You tell us in the ads nearly every week." Jon wraps Pundit's leash around his wrist and uses the weight of the meat to balance himself so that she can't drag him into the house. "Also, I witness it. On a near-daily basis."

Tommy opens the fence door, calling, "hey, assholes, we've been waiting. Feel free to keep bickering out here, just hand over the meat. And the dogs."

"Sorry," Jon apologizes, wrapping Tommy in a one-armed hug. "Someone wouldn't know a high-quality burger if it hit him in the ass, so we had to stop for hot dogs."

"Is it a short-rib burger?"

"No."

"Then I stand by my decision."

Tommy chuckles, pulling Lovett into a longer, two-armed hug. 

Leo's leash tangles in-between them, and Lovett does a 360 to get out of it, as he says, "happy birthday. Again. You're not getting more presents."

Jon pulls his eyes away from Lovett's bare legs and red, white, and blue shoes, twisting around his dog, and grins at Tommy.

"He's such a monster," Jon shrugs, apologetically.

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, fondly. "Everyone's out back. And let's get these on the grill."

The dogs pull ahead of them, tails wagging faster as they near the crowd of people on the deck. Pundit yips when she sees Dan, raising on her hind legs so she can lick his face.

"Hey, Pundit." Dan pats her head a little gingerly. Jon's always been convinced that she's drawn to Dan because he's not sure what to do with her exuberance and her moodiness. Pundit's never liked not being liked. Jon has a lot of experience dealing with that impulse.

"Hey, Pundo," he calls, rescuing Dan. Her ears perk up and she jogs back to his side, pawing at his thighs so he can take her leash off. He holds up a ball, and her tail wags even faster.

When he throws it, though, Leo jumps over her back and off the deck, flying over the three short steps and beating her by a mile. She follows him, sniffing happily at his mouth. Jon repeats, over and over again, until his arm is sore and Pundit gives up. Leo drops down halfway through the yard, chewing happily now that he's not being chased. Pundit gives him a forlorn look, then turns back to the deck.

"Try harder," Lovett tells her when she snuffles at his feet, looking for sympathy.

"Sometimes," Jon tells her, pointedly, as he picks her up, "brothers are pretty annoying. You just have to ignore them."

"I'm telling Andy you said that," Lovett says, reaching over to pet her with his free hand, his fingers brushing against Jon's shoulders. He's eating a hot dog with the other. It's at least his third. Maybe his fourth.

"Nothing I haven't told him already, a hundred times over." Pundit pants against his shoulder. "I'm gonna go get her some water. You need anything?"

Lovett holds up his hot dog. "Nah."

Jon shakes his head, laughing a little as he heads inside. He wipes his shoes on the mat just inside the sliding glass doors, making a vague note to get one for Lovett's living room to replace the old dog towel they're using now, and heads towards the kitchen.

" - she got divorced over a year ago, and she's looking to get out there again. She's brilliant and progressive- she's be perfect for Jon. I'm gonna set them up when the boys are in NY next week."

Alyssa's voice bubbles into the living room, and Jon flushes a little, taking a step forward with all intentions of letting her know that he's here, before this gets any more embarrassing.

But then Dan says, "I don't think he'd go for it," and Jon turns his leg mid-step, moving sideways, instead. From this angle, they can't see him, but he can see Alyssa mixing a salad together at the kitchen table. He can't see Dan, but Jon knows Dan well enough to read his body language in his voice.

"Don't you think it's about time he settles down?" Alyssa steals a piece of lettuce from the bowl and tastes it, frowning. "Definitely more vinegar."

"Not too much."

Alyssa shakes the apple vinegar bottle. "Trust me, with this salad and with the other thing. Jon's not 24 and hunting for girls at keggers anymore. He's ready, I can tell. And Tommy just got engaged- Speaking of, Jesus, did you see that ring?"

Dan chuckles. "I know. Howli sent me a very pointed blown-up image. Tommy owes me a few drinks for all the flack that caused."

"He probably owes David a few, too." Alyssa laughs as she dowses the salad. "Much better. Anyway, Candice is the kinda girl Jon could take home. His parents would love her."

Dan steps forward, into Jon's line of sight, and steals a tomato. "I'm not saying that Jon isn't ready to settle down. Just, maybe, not with Candice."

Alyssa hums.

"Or," Dan says, slowly, "not with any woman."

Jon's heart beats loudly in his chest. Pundit squirms, butting her head against Jon's chin, then resting her ear against his chest, right over his heart. 

Alyssa's eyes are wide as saucers. "Oh. Oh." She smirks. "He's finally coming out of that Catholic cocoon of repression, huh?"

"Apparently."

"Who's the guy? What's he like? I always figured," she continues thoughtfully, as she chops a few more tomatoes, "that if it happened, it wouldn't happen with some random guy he met at the gym."

Dan looks down at the counter. He reaches out to steal another slice.

Alyssa slowly puts down her knife. "No?"

"Yeah."

"No. Really? Lovett? Finally?"

Dan glances around and Jon takes a step further behind the living room wall. "Keep your voice down. They're not, like, out or anything. I'm not sure they're actually anything at all."

"Nonsense. When you're that-" Dan raises an eyebrow, and Alyssa stops, sighing. "When they're that stupid," she finishes, although that obviously wasn't how she wanted to finish it. "Yeah, yeah, I see your point. But-"

"Don't. Alyssa, seriously, don't push. If it's right, it's right, and Jon's a smart guy. He'll know when the time is right."

"Okay, okay, no pushing." Alyssa holds up her hands, palms out. "How about a little shove?"

Dan rolls his eyes, chuckling as he grabs the salad bowl. "Stay out of it."

"Fine, fine." She falls into step behind him. "Just think about it, though. Matching goldendoodle bowties at their wedding. Do you think Lovett could get Jon to match theirs, too?"

Dan laughs, and he opens his mouth to say something, but they're coming right towards Jon. Jon turns on his heel, fleeing the living room and ducking into the first door he finds.

It's the powder room, and Jon gratefully sets Pundit down so he can splash some water on his face. In the mirror, he looks both startled-white and embarrassment-flushed. He turns his head, looking critically at the forest of greying hair around his ears, the way his cheeks are a little sunken with all the sleep he hasn't been getting since Trump was elected, the wrinkles that are settling in at the sides of his eyes that he likes to say are laugh lines but are really just from squinting too hard and too long at the Sunday shows.

He should probably schedule an eye doctor's appointment sometime soon.

Pundit jumps onto the toilet seat, then onto the counter so she can sit in his line of vision. Jon scratches under her collar. "You'd look good in whatever crazy colored bowtie Lovett could put you in, wouldn't you, Angel?"

She yips. Jon's chest aches.

"I know, I know. He has no sense of fashion. It's a tragedy and I'm sorry you have to suffer through that. But do you want to know a secret?" She tilts her head, her eyes warm and understanding. "I'd wear any color he asked me to. It's not the color that's the problem. It's the asking."

She shakes out her head, glancing forlornly at the sink.

"Yeah, yeah, I promised you water, like, half an hour ago." He helps her down from the sink, makes a half-hearted attempt to clean Tommy's counter of dog hair, then follows her into the kitchen. He finds a bowl that he hopes Hanna doesn't use too often, and fills it.

Pundit drinks quickly and gratefully. She may be the louder of their dogs, but she's definitely more graceful. Not that Leo sets a high bar where grace is concerned.

Jon leans back against the counter, looking out the open kitchen window at the party on the deck. Lovett's holding court, still waving that damn half-eaten hot dog - or, hopefully, it's a new hot dog - as he rants about what Jon can only assume is the indecency of the Express Checkout at Vons but could very well be healthcare or the Arpaio pardon. 

He has the entirety of their new Crooked family enthralled. DeRay is shaking his head, sharing an amused eye roll with Tanya. Ira keeps trying to interrupt, with little to no success. Alyssa does interrupt, with much more success, and Ira glares at her with eyes that would make anyone else shrink, but she just wags her finger at him. Tommy throws his head back, laughing so hard that Jon can see his chest shake from here, his hand thrown over a very indulgent Hanna's shoulders.

Elijah is recording the whole thing. Jon hopes he's not actually going to post it to the Crooked Instagram, but he does make a note to ask for the video later.

Jon loves them all. Jon-

Jon knew he was falling months ago. Hell, he probably fell a decade ago, the first time he watched Lovett hold court, just like this, in a Georgetown bar. It took the election, though, to upend the comfortable friendship Jon had allowed himself to fall into, and if Jon has it in him to be the straight shooter Lovett always claims to be, then he can admit that he owes Trump this one tiny piece of the happiness Jon's almost found. 

And while he's being honest with himself, Jon can admit that Alyssa and Dan are right. He's let their friendship slip, easily and effortlessly, into whatever unspoken and uninterrogated mix of mind-blowing sex and affectionate comfort it's become. 

Because Jon would rather have that than nothing at all.

Over the past few months, at least, Jon would rather have had that than nothing at all.

Now, though- Well, Jon wants more. He knows he's ready for more. Lovett, on the other hand-

"Hey."

Jon blinks, looking down at Lovett's fingers, softly touching Jon's elbow. He doesn't know how long he's been standing here, thinking. He has no idea when Lovett left the deck, but when he glances out the window, Ira's holding court, now. 

"You okay?" Lovett frowns. "I called your name a couple of times."

Jon swallows. "Did you? Sorry, I was just thinking."

"This," Lovett grins, "is what happens when you're literally addicted to Twitter. These," Lovett waves towards Jon's posture, "are withdrawal symptoms."

Yep, Alyssa and Dan are both right. Jon's ready for everything. Horrendous bowties and all.

He chuckles, despite himself. "You're probably right. Where even is my phone?"

Lovett holds it up. "You left it on the deck chair." He holds it away though, and leans forward, dropping his voice. "I have a proposition for you."

"Shoot."

"It involves busting out of this party and spending the evening on my couch."

Jon shakes his head. "You just want to play that new video game."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Except for leaving our friend Tommy's party. He put a lot of time into it. And-"

"It's a backyard BBQ, and we've been here for hours."

"And," Jon continues, pointedly, "I've yet to hear anything in it for me."

"I figured that was obvious." Lovett scoffs, waving the phone. "A blowjob and an entire evening to fight on Twitter."

Jon drops his head, his entire body aching to kiss Lovett, the window and the open floorplan be damned. "You say the nicest things to me."

"I know my audience."

Jon laughs. "You know me, at least."

Lovett pauses, and for a heart-pounding moment, Jon thinks that Lovett is going to kiss him. 

But then Lovett shakes his head, taking a step back as he says, "last one to the car orders the pizza."

"I just ate, like, a pound of pulled pork. I couldn't eat a slice of pepperoni if my life depended on it."

"We'll see about that," Lovett bets.

A bet he wins by a mile. A couple hours later, with the video game paused and the soundtrack still playing through the Sonos, Jon's the one to say, "I'm hungry. I think you owe me a pizza."

"After that?" Lovett takes a moment to catch his breath, then leans over the couch to fish around for his jeans so he can grab his phone out of the pocket. "I'll order anything you fucking want."

***

It's easier for Jon to forget the overheard conversation when they're in LA. Or, not so much forget, as pretend that it doesn't matter. When he's spending his days in the office with Lovett and Tommy. When they carpool most mornings and he spends more nights at Lovett's than not. It's easy to pretend this this is all that Jon will ever need.

It's harder, though, when they're on the road. When they're surrounded, all day, by Dan and Tommy and half the Crooked content team. When they have to worry about Elijah finding a second toothbrush in Jon's bathroom or Tommy recognizing the Holy Cross sweatshirt thrown over the back of a chair in Lovett's hotel room. When Jon has to spend the last hour of dinner coming up with ways to leave when Lovett does and, even then, getting derailed most nights and having to return to his cold, quiet hotel room, alone.

Jon's running on three such nights and their subsequent limited sleep when they trudge into the Cleveland Hilton halfway through their October tour. He stops at the counter, dropping his bag at his feet and handing the receptionist a packet of reservations.

"No, no, no." Tanya drops her bag next to Jon's and jogs into the waiting area, waving her arms, leaving him alone at reception.

Jon turns to watch Lovett freeze, halfway into sitting in one of the big armchairs. "What? I was just gonna sit down for a minute and Skype my dog-"

"And never get back up again," Tanya accuses, crossing her arms and tapping her foot. "We have a week's worth of ads to record. Up, up."

"You are way too good at your job," Lovett grumbles, but he does stand up and drag himself over to the reception desk, so he can lean tiredly at Jon's shoulder. "If we're gonna spend the afternoon recording, can we at least get some nourishment with it?"

"That's actually a good idea," Tommy perks up. "We'll go get snacks."

"Nachos," Lovett orders.

"Not nachos." Tanya shakes her head. "Microphones and crunching and- trust us, we'll get something good."

Lovett watches them go, then turns back to Jon, resting his chin in the crook of Jon's elbow. "I don't trust them to get something good."

"Mmm." Jon turns his head, and Lovett is there, just a few inches from him. "I'd say you should go with them, but I need some help with all the bags."

Lovett glances down at the pile of bags around them. "We've been deserted," he says, dramatically.

"I'm okay with it." Jon leans over the counter. "Can I get two keys for room 313? One is fine for all the others."

She hands them over, and Jon slips one of his keys down the counter.

Lovett pockets it. "Very subtle."

Jon rolls his eyes. "I wasn't trying to be subtle. Help me with these bags."

"Yeah, yeah, I've missed you, too," Lovett deadpans.

Jon's stomach flips.

He really has to get himself together.

Between the two of them, they get all the bags upstairs and into Tommy's room. Jon stretches out on the couch, slitting his eyes so he can watch Lovett set up the recording equipment. He's wearing his favorite pair of maroon pants, the ones that are a little big at the waist and slip down when he sits, and a long-sleeve Henley that Jon's pretty sure he stole from Jon's closet. Jon follows the strip of skin at Lovett's lower back that appears and disappears as Lovett raises and drops his arms.

"Are you gonna help, or-?"

Jon shrugs. "I'm sort of enjoying the view."

"Next time, I'm sending you to get the food while Tommy helps with the bags. He's actually useful." But the next time Lovett reaches up to connect a microphone to the recording laptop, his skin is flushed pink with pleasure.

Jon reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans.

He's not helped, really, when Tommy, Tanya, and Elijah join them with beers, a tray of fried foods, and a vegetable spread. 

"I don't understand why nachos will 'crunch too hard into the microphone,'" Lovett complains, as he piles his plate high with mozzarella sticks and potato skins. "But Tommy's bunny food is fine. Because carrots are so quiet."

Lovett makes a big show out of trying to suck the carrot, then takes a loud, obvious bite out of it.

Jon shifts in his seat, bending over to reach his beer but, more importantly, to cover the uncomfortable bulge against the zipper of his jeans.

"My rabbit food," Tommy says, loftily, "keeps me slim." He sticks out an exaggerated hip, then crowds onto the couch with Jon.

Lovett rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair, tipping it on its back legs. "Like you need to be slimmer. Give me a fucking break." He pulls his legs onto the chair, holding it steady with a hand on the window sill. "Are we gonna start recording or-?"

"Fucking monster," Tommy murmurs, quickly chewing another carrot, then reaching for his microphone.

Jon pulls his tablet into his lap. He's grateful for the tablet-shield when, halfway through their first Blue Apron ad, Lovett swings sideways in his chair, one leg still on the ground, the other curled over the armrest. He tips his head back, pulling the microphone close to his mouth. 

"You can even customize your recipes each week based on your preferences. Get $30 off your first meal by going to blueapron.com/crooked. That's code 'crooked.'"

Lovett arches his hips, lengthening his neck. "Say it."

Jon shakes his head, but complies. "Blue Apron is a better way to-"

"We're in Tommy's hotel room, eating _vegetables_ because Tommy wants to keep his figure for his upcoming wedding. If I ate a kale smoothie every day for five years, I'd never look like Tommy. So, why try? I have a plate of mozzarella sticks all to myself."

Tommy bends over, laughing into his knees.

Jon barely gets out "- cook" before he's laughing, too.

Tanya turns off the recording, rolling her eyes fondly. "I guess that'll do. Next one?"

"Yeah." Jon dross his ankle over his knee and pulls up the next copy. "Pod Save America is brought to you by Quip. Oh, new ad alert."

Tommy leans closer so that he can read over Jon's shoulder. "This is gonna be a good one."

"Quip," Lovett tries, testing the word on his tongue.

Jon reads from the page. "You don't need a big, expensive toothbrush to get the oral care you need. Get the same refreshing clean with something smaller. The words exciting and toothbrush have never been used in the same sentence before."

Lovett sits up in his chair, crossing his ankles under him. "Except 'it's exciting how much this toothbrush company is paying for this.'"

Dan turns his head so he can laugh into his shoulder. Tommy doesn't bother, laughing directly into the mic.

"I want you all to know," Lovett says, "that Dan is here and he's raised his mic six or seven times, but he hasn't said a thing. And now he's laughing as far away from it as possible, so none of you will know how funny he thinks I am."

"I'm being shy about it," Dan whispers into the mic.

Tommy keeps laughing.

"Anyway," Jon continues, "we're introducing Quip, the new company that's refreshing the way you brush your teeth. An electric toothbrush that packs premium vibration-"

Lovett's not the only one to lose it at that.

"-And timer features in an ultra slim design-"

Lovett stops laughing long enough to hold up his hand. "Dan, high five me on 'premium vibrations.'"

Dan high fives him. "Not for 'ultra slim design'?"

"Wait." Lovett snaps his head to look at Jon, waggling his eyebrows. "Did I miss 'ultra slim design'?"

"You did."

"Cool cool cool cool."

"It's basically-" Jon continues, squeezing his thighs together. "- like an Apple-designed toothbrush, but without the price tag. Quip is backed by leading dentists and won a GQ grooming award."

Dan tilts his head. "The Groomies?"

Lovett laughs into his wrist.

"And made Oprah's Year End 'O List.'"

Tommy snorts. "That's not what that is."

Jon valiantly fights through. "Go to getquip.com/crooked and get your first refill pack free."

"That's a premium vibration," Lovett says, nodding in all seriousness.

"Quip is a better way to-"

"Premium vibrations."

"-Brush," Jon finishes, then allows himself to disintegrate into laughter.

"Okay, okay." Tanya's even laughing as she turns off the recording and closes the laptop. "I think that's enough for today. You should all get in a nap before the show tonight. God only knows we don't want the show to be this punchy."

"Loose," Lovett suggests. "I like loose shows."

"Not _this_ loose."

***

The show in Cleveland is good. They have a great conversation with Sherrod Brown and Connie Schultz. Tommy has a Pod Save the World segment about Rocket Man. Lovett rants about Sean Spicer and the liberal media. Jon even manages not to spend the entire two hours staring at the way Lovett hangs in his chair, his knees spread half-haphazardly across the arm rest, exactly the way they were in the hotel earlier.

"You know what's cool about you?" Lovett asks, rising onto his bent knee so that he can seem taller in the booth they've confiscated at a local steak house around the corner from the theater. He waves his fork between Senator Brown and Connie Schulz. "You're a progressive liberal power couple. Like a modern-day JFK and Jackie O."

Connie laughs at him. "You're too kind, Jon."

"No, seriously." Jon tips his head, looking at them closer. "The Democratic Party needs more honestly good people like you two. And I've gotta tell you-"

Tommy shakes his head. "Don't do it."

"I'm not gonna- No, I'm gonna. Because I don't learn any lessons."

Jon groans, burying his head in his hand. "We're out of the prediction business."

"Of course we are. We suck at it." Lovett taps his foot against his seat, pushing against Jon's thigh. "That never keeps you and Tommy from playing Fantasy Football, though, which I'm pretty sure is something balls-related that involves shitty predictions. I don't really know, but I know you both lose money every year."

"Yeah," Dan grins. "To me."

"That's cause you cheat," Tommy says in all seriousness, as he takes a long, slow sip of his drink.

"How do you cheat at Fantasy Football?"

"I haven't figured that out yet, but, somehow, you always end up with first pick."

Dan shrugs. "I'm a lucky guy."

"Trump's president," Sherrod Brown deadpans. "None of us are lucky guys."

"You," Lovett grins, leaning further across the table. "See, I like you. You're moving up in my bracket."

Connie raises an eyebrow. "Your Fantasy Football bracket?"

"My Fantasy 2020 bracket."

Jon groans. Tommy drops his head to the table.

"What?" Lovett glares around the table. "Are we not allowed to talk about it? It's just a bracket. We all have one. And I'm not saying where you are on it, I'm just saying I have a Senator's quarter, and you're there. That's all."

Sherrod leans over. "If I slip you a $20 later, will you tell me if I make it to the Sweet Sixteen?"

"Mmm, tempting." Lovett bites his lip, thoughtfully. "But, regretfully, out of respect for the process and the traumatic wounds I'm still bearing from 2016, I'm going to have to decline. Sorry."

Sherrod shrugs. "It's just an honor to know I'm on it." He winks.

Lovett grins and, when he uses the extra key to sneak into Jon's room a couple hours later, he's still grinning. "I just love them," he says, toeing off his sneakers and falling onto the bed next to Jon.

Jon locks his phone mid-tweet and slips it onto his bedside table. "Progressive liberal power couple."

"Yeah." Lovett sighs dramatically, rolling onto his stomach. "Role models. I mean, I love my parents and all, but Sherrod Brown and Connie Schulz are marriage goals."

"Yeah." Jon swallows. It's the opening he's been waiting for for weeks, and he takes a deep breath. "About that-"

Lovett, though, is focused on the inseam of Jon's jeans. He's trailing his fingers up the denim, scooting over so he can lie between Jon's legs, urging him to spread his knees. "You know, it's awfully _hard_ to record ads about premium vibrations when you're staring at me."

"Try reading the copy," Jon gasps, as Lovett unzips his jeans and pulls his dick out of his briefs.

"It's even worse," Lovett says, thoughtfully, as he wraps Jon in his fist and moves his hand, slowly, "than those TommyJohn ads. About the quick-release fly."

"You just, ahh, proved their point about the quick-release fly."

"True, true." Lovett pulls Jon's dick closer, so he can slide the tip into his mouth. "I say we test out the premium vibrations."

Lovett lowers his head, pulling Jon in until his tip rests at the back of Lovett's throat. Lovett hums, as hard as he can, his throat vibrating rhythmically around Jon.

"Fuck, fuck." Jon wraps his fingers in the quilt as he arches his hips, pushing his pelvis against Lovett's chin. "Is that the Lovett or Leave It theme song?"

Lovett lifts his head, letting Jon's dick slip into the curve of his thigh. It leaks dark stains into his jeans.

"I thought it was fitting."

Jon shakes his head. "I can't believe I'm attracted to you."

Lovett closes his eyes, squeezing his fingers around Jon's knee, "yeah, me either," then he pulls Jon back in, loosening his throat and dropping his head. He keeps humming his theme song.

"I'm never," Jon groans, "going to be able to hear this song on my Sonos without thinking about this."

"That's the goal." Lovett's voice is muffled, then he pulls off, grinning up at Jon, his lips wet and swollen. "To get you hard before I even enter the house. A Pavlovian response to my entrance."

Jon rolls his eyes, reaching down so he can pump himself in his fist. "I'm already pretty conditioned. I've been hard since we recorded earlier."

Lovett waggles his eyebrows. "Because 'ultimate slim design' makes you automatically think of me?"

"You're a monster." Jon lifts onto his knee so he can flip himself, landing on his side along Lovett's body and reaching into Lovett's sweats. He pulls the waistband of Lovett's sweats and briefs to rest under his balls, and takes Lovett into his hand. He fits perfectly in Jon's palm, not terribly long, but thick and curved and already leaking flatteringly across Jon's fingertips. "Slim is not exactly the word I'd use."

Lovett bites his lip against a moan, pushing his hips into Jon's hand. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"It's not flattery if it's the truth." Jon traces the deep vein on the underside of Lovett's dick, ending just under the head, and Lovett shivers. "Think we should sue them for liable?"

"That would go over well in court. 'See, your honor, this is a picture of my dick. My Co-host thinks it doesn't quite qualify for 'ultimate slim design.' What do you think? Literary license?" Lovett laughs, his breath brushing across Jon's dick. Jon twitches towards him and Lovett takes pity on him, taking him back into his fist. "Do you ever think that our advertisers know we're fucking? We only get the raunchiest ones."

"We only choose the raunchiest ones," Jon corrects. "We get plenty of tamer options, but they're not as interested in our, ahh, unique brand of delivery."

"Self-selecting advertisers." Lovett tilts his head, offering Jon a self-deprecating smile. "Fits my brand, 'Better in small doses.'"

"Over a million people a week self-select our podcasts." Jon tightens his fist, starting what he hopes is a distracting rhythm of speed and squeezes. "If that's not proof enough that people like you, I don't know what is."

"Your sincerity is contagious," Lovett complains, shifting so he can take Jon back into his mouth. "I don't know why I'm attracted to you," he parrots.

"Yeah, me either," Jon parrots back, before he sinks into the sensation of Lovett's mouth. Warm and wet and tight, his throat closing tightly around Jon as he picks up the humming. Not to be outdone, Jon takes Lovett in. His throat isn't quite as loose as Lovett's, but he taps out their tour music with his tongue against Lovett's dick, like some bastardized version of Morse code made out of tongue swipes and presses.

"Was that," Lovett asks, when he's lying across Jon's chest, later, tapping out the same rhythm against Jon's sternum, "our theme music?"

"Mmm." Jon presses a kiss behind Lovett's ear. "I couldn't let Lovett or Leave It have all the fun."

"Fuck. Now I'm going to be fucking hard on stage tomorrow night. That's gonna be awkward."

"A little taste of your own medicine."

Lovett turns his head, slanting his eyes disbelievingly up at Jon.

"I told you," Jon repeats, "I'd been hard since recording this afternoon. Continually. Without breaks."

"I know what continually means," Lovett mutters, but he's still giving Jon that leery, incredulous look, and then he lays his head back against Jon's chest. "Turn off the light?"

"Yeah." Jon stretches to flip the switch on the lamp, before settling into the mattress, tangling his hair in Lovett's curls. He breathes for long minutes, gathering his courage under the coverage of darkness, until he whispers, "I wish you understood how much I want you."

Lovett snuffles in sleep, and Jon sighs, resting his head on the top of Lovett's and letting himself drift into the first good sleep he's had in days.

***

"GLAADiator or Darth Gaydar?"

Jon glances up from Lovett's couch to see him holding up two costumes. Leo raises his head from Jon's thigh and huffs. Pundit doesn't move from his other side. "I agree with the dogs. How about something else? Gayton Manning?"

Lovett glances at the costumes in his hands. "I don't have a costume for Gayton Manning."

"I have a jersey you could wear."

"Isn't he, like, getting indicted for leaky balls or something?"

Jon narrows his eyes. "That was Tom Brady, and we promised never to speak of it in this house."

Lovett rolls his eyes. "I never promised anything of the sort. Mostly because promising things I don't understand usually gets me into trouble."

"And you get into enough of that on your own," Jon deadpans. "The costumes are fine. Can you just choose one? I've been in this Jared Kushner get up for over an hour."

Lovett sighs, draping the costumes over the dining room table and grabbing for his phone. "I should have gone as Ivanka."

"Now that's an idea."

Lovett rolls his eyes. "Get your head out of the gutter. I don't own the right kinda dress. Next year."

Jon's mouth goes dry. Lovett wearing a pink little number that ends way above his hairy knees and hugs his curves. Lovett trying to walk in Ivanka's 3-inch heels. Lovett hanging onto his arm, thinking about doing so an entire year from now.

"Yeah." Jon clears his throat. "Next year we should have a Crooked Media Halloween party."

"I mean, this party is pretty much a Crooked Media Halloween party," Lovett argues. "But, yeah. Put it on the company calendar."

Jon picks up his phone, clicking on his calendar app before an alert flashes. 

_@jonlovett Costume decision. Trying to decide between Darth Gaydar, GLAADiator, or Gayton Manning (h/t @jonfavs) for tonight._

Jon glares over his phone. "I have a Twitter alert set up for you, asshole." 

"What?" Lovett shrugs. "I thought I'd get a second opinion. I don't, generally, take fashion advice from my straight bros."

"I don't-" Jon's brain fizzes away from the image of Lovett in a dress, so he can gape at the version in front of him, still dressed in sweats and clicking through Twitter. "We fucked, like, three hours ago."

Lovett purses his lips around a smile. "I know. I'm still sore." Lovett waves his phone. "Internet consensus is GLAADiator."

Pundit huffs, turning on her side so she can curl into the curve of Jon's thigh. "Yeah," Jon agrees. "Your dad can't fight his adoring masses. Group think, it's what'll get him in the end."

"Hey," Lovett protests, as he strips out of his sweatpants in the dining room and pulls a short faux-leather gladiator kilt over his TommyJohns. "Straight shooter."

"Achilles heel." Jon raises an eyebrow as Lovett ties a Pride flag around his shoulders and slips a rainbow sweatband onto his wrist. "Literally."

"Next year, if we don't do the Ivanka thing, I should go as a Twitter warrior." Lovett joins him on the couch, sitting sideways and crossing his legs, his knees bumping against Jon's thigh. Pundit raises her head and Lovett leans over Jon so he can ruffle her ears. "I need to figure out the pun, though."

"You've got a year to work on it," Jon agrees. He can see up Lovett's kilt and he places a hand on Lovett's bare knee. His voice is thick and a little more gravely than he'd like. "You sure we need to go to this party? I'll make it worth your while."

Lovett bites his lip, watching as Jon's fingers inch upwards, slipping under the hem of his briefs. "Yes. No. I put so much thought into this costume. I want people to _see_ it."

"I see it," Jon murmurs, rucking Lovett's briefs up and rubbing his thumb over the soft head of Lovett's dick. "I see all of it."

Lovett chokes on his laughter, but he slaps Jon's hand away gently. "Other people. Real people. Who don't undress me with their eyes every time they see me."

"You've noticed that, have you?"

Lovett shakes his head as he fits a neon headdress over his ears. "You're not very subtle."

"Self-awareness is very attractive." Jon argues, as Lovett unfolds himself from the couch and helps Jon up after him.

Lovett eyes him critically. "Besides, you've gotta show off that Kushner costume. It's fucking perfect."

"Still think you should have gone as Ivanka," Jon mutters, but he follows Lovett through the house. They give the dogs treats, tell them to behave, and fold themselves into a Lyft.

Ira's rented out a warehouse in Silver Lake. It's loud and bright, decorated with Edison bulbs and Jack-O-Lantern string lights. There's a photo booth as they walk in, and they get off a ridiculous 'GLAADiator defeats Kushner with rainbow lightning' picture before Ira grabs Lovett's hand and pulls him into the crowd.

Jon's staring at the polaroids, wondering if his face is always so stupid in pictures and working his way through his second glass of punch when Tommy finds him.

"Perfect Kushner," Tommy tells him, approvingly. "Alone in the corner, looking sort of confused."

"Thanks," Jon deadpans, shoving the picture into his back pocket. "Sonny?"

"Yeah." Tommy smoothes down his suit jacket. He's wearing a sunflower shirt under it, unbuttoned almost to his navel. "Hanna's Cher. It was her idea. Lovett let me borrow the shirt."

"I figured."

"It was either this, or slubby venture capitalist, and Tanya says that's how I dress every day, so-" Tommy shrugs. "Halloween is not my holiday."

Jon laughs. "I would have never guessed from your valiant attempt to mutilate that pumpkin in the office yesterday."

"At least I tried to carve a pumpkin. You sat in a corner with Leo and laughed at all of us."

"Hey, I know my limits." Jon finishes his punch and refills his cup, handing Tommy a glass, too. "Which include both knives and artistic creativity."

Tommy takes a sip and coughs. "Shit this stuff is strong. Ira sure knows how to throw a party."

Jon nods. "Speaking of, I was listening to some of the tests for Keep It yesterday and-"

"Nope. No work talk. It's Halloween." He dumps half his goblet of punch into Jon's glass. "Drink up and follow me."

"I was just gonna say they were great," Jon protests, but he allows Tommy to drag him out onto the dance floor. 

They weave their way through goblins and slutty grand jury charges - "if I see another one of those, I'm going to snap," Tommy mutters - and more than a few Wonder Womans before they find Hanna and Lovett in the middle of the dance floor.

"Hey." Lovett lights up, grabbing at Jon's glass. "I wondered where you guys had got to."

"That slutty Trump over there grabbed my ass. Took me awhile to get away." Tommy nods into the crowd at a tall guy in a blond wig, MAGA hat, booty shorts, and stubby red tie. The guy winks.

Jon drops a hand to Lovett's waist under the guise of stealing back his punch. "Tommy's the Grinch of Halloween. Ignore him."

Lovett pushes into Jon's hand for a moment, then pulls back. "That's Josh. He and Ira have a-" he waves his hand "-thing. I'd stay away from him if I were you."

"No worries. I already found my Cher." Tommy wraps an arm around Hanna and pulls her in for an exaggerated kiss.

Lovett gags. "That's disgustingly sweet."

"My teeth hurt," Jon agrees, but he's grinning at Lovett, wondering if _I already found my GLAADiator_ packs the same punch.

Lovett steals the cup back. "How much of this have you had?"

"Enough." Jon leans closer again. "You should probably take advantage." He tries to shimmy his hips to the music, but if Lovett's bent-at-the-waist, chocking-back-tears laughter is anything to go by, he misses by a mile.

"Never," he gets out, with tears at the corners of his eyes, "do that again." He grabs Jon's wrist, leading him into something that more-or-less estimates dancing. 

It's hot in the warehouse, and Jon's sweating in his costume. He can feel it at his wrist, under his collar, in the small of his back. Next to him, he can hear Hanna trying to walk two-left-boat shoes Tommy through a Sonny and Cher routine, and he can feel the press of fur and sequins and satin all around him. He must have had a lot of punch, though, because it's all a little fuzzy, flickers of movement and flashes of limbs that he can't quite make out under the base drops in the music.

All he can see clearly is Lovett. He's not sure if it's the neon headdress or the Pride flag, or the way Lovett moves - locking his elbows, loosening his knees, his face open and laughing - but it's the sharpest Jon's ever seen him and it's the sharpest Jon's ever felt about him. If things were different, Jon's almost certain that this would be the moment he did something stupid and embarrassing to seal the deal.

"Hey," Lovett touches his elbow, "you okay?"

"Yeah, just a little hot in here." Jon pulls at his collar, undoing the top button, and then, before he can think twice about it, adds, "and I'd really like to kiss you."

Lovett laughs. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Is it?" Jon rubs at the back of his neck. "Is it ridiculous?"

"You're really going to- You want to have this conversation _now_?" Lovett stops dancing, glancing sharply around them, his eyes catching over Tommy and Hanna. He takes a step forward and drops his voice to a hiss. "Jon, what the fuck?"

"Sorry." Jon takes a step back. This isn't what he wanted. That wasn't the right gesture and it definitely wasn't the right response. His head is swimming, thick and unsteady as he searches for words around the heat of the warehouse and the bodies pushing and pulling around them. "I'm sorry, I- Can we go back to dancing?"

"Yeah," Lovett sighs out a breath, and starts moving his hips again.

Jon can't hear the beat of the music over the pounding in his head, but he looks down at Lovett's hips and follows his lead. 

Jon's getting really fucking good at that.

***

"Guantanamo? He's a _domestic_ terrorist. Trump can't try him in Gitmo."

Lovett grunts. "A little help?"

Jon looks up from Twitter to see Lovett struggling to get both their rolling bags into the overhead compartment. He pockets his phone, reaching up to steady the bag, then swinging Lovett's in next to his.

"Guantanamo?" He repeats, as he slides into his seat.

"We knew this would happen," Lovett sighs, as he balls up the puffy jacket he bought for an early November trip to the East Coast and lays his head on it against the window. "An immigrant kills 8 people in New York City and it's the Democrat's problem. Full stop."

He sounds tired. He's sounded tired since Halloween. Jon frowns at him.

Lovett sighs. "Trump wants to end the green card lottery. I can only worry about one problem at a time."

Jon scoffs. "Since when?"

Lovett shrugs. He's wearing a grey Henley, the sleeves falling long down his hands. Jon's pretty sure it's the same one of his that Lovett's been wearing for the past few months. "Since now. Since a terrorist chose my favorite fucking holiday as the day to mow down civilians in my hometown. Since Congress wants to cut healthcare for tens of millions of Americans to pay for extra yachts for Republican donors. Since Facebook sat back and let a foreign power determine our elections and then goes in front of the fucking House Intelligence committee to say they're going to do nothing about it. Since you-"

Jon flinches. He drops his voice so Tommy and Dan can't hear him from their seats a couple rows back. "Since I tried to kiss you on Halloween?"

Lovett sits up, his balled up jacket falling into his lap. "I'm just exhausted. Do you mind if I-?"

Jon weighs the pros and cons of pushing him, so that they can finally move past this- whatever this is that Jon unwittingly started on Halloween. Lovett seems pretty clear, though, that the public kiss was a bad idea, and if a public _kiss_ is a no go, Jon cringes to imagine what he'd say about all the other things Jon would like to do in public. Like hold his hand on the streets of DC. Like walk their dogs on tandem leashes. Like take photos of Lovett and Leo napping together and post them on Twitter with disgustingly sweet messages.

So Jon takes the low road. Again.

Lovett takes Jon's silence as assent. He fits his jacket around Jon's shoulder and rests his head just under Jon's ear, closing his eyes without a word.

Jon tries not to be endlessly relieved. He resists pressing a kiss to Lovett's curls and moves slowly to pull his phone back out of his pocket. Lovett sleeps the entire the five hours from LA to Philly, while Jon whittles away the hours on the crappy GoGo InFlight WiFi, chatting with Tommy about Gitmo on Twitter and trying to decipher the Tax Bill.

Just as they're about to land, his phone lights up with a message from Emily.

_congrats on the live shows. I'm proud of you. drinks in DC?_

His heart hammers the way it always does when he hears from her.

Lovett stiffens against his shoulder, sitting up and letting his jacket fall into his lap. His hair is mussed with sleep, his curls flattened where they were pressed against Jon's shoulder, his eyes slitted and crusty.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," Jon tells him, with a smile that feels fake, even to him.

Lovett nods to his phones. His voice is rough and quiet. "Nice of Emily to get in touch."

Jon shrugs. "Yeah, it is. Would be nice to see how she's doing. It's been a long time."

Lovett leans down to shove his things into his backpack before the stewardess can tell him to do it. He won't meet Jon's eyes. "Maybe she's finally ready."

Jon narrows his eyes. The Halloween hangover only last a day or so, but the world hasn't quite righted itself in the same way in the days since. Except, this time, it's Lovett who's blurry and hard to decipher. "She was never the problem," he says, slowly. "Anyway, I think she's seeing an environmental lawyer."

"He sounds insufferable."

Jon chuckles. "Yeah, he does. I'll fill you in, after."

"Yeah." Lovett kicks his backpack back under the seat and stares out the window as Philly comes into relief below them. His voice is edged in something rough and painful that Jon doesn't quite understand. "Be sure to do that."

***

"Jon." Emily waves him over. Her hair is framed around her face in two perfect waves and she brushes it behind her ear as she rises off her stool to meet him.

Jon wraps his fingers around her elbow, leaning close so he can kiss her cheek. "You look great."

She laughs. "I look the same."

She does look the same. The same smile splitting her teeth, wide and open and so willing to think the best of the world and of him. The same long, thin legs that she crosses as she settles back on her bar stool, the same bar stool she sat on for the three years of their romance. The same ease of her shoulders, under a Friend of the Pod shirt, elegant and poised and uncomplicated.

She follows his gaze. "Well, except for the shirt. Too much?"

He chuckles. The bar is around the corner from their old apartment - her apartment now, he supposes - and it feels familiar to settle onto his old stool next to her. "No, it's perfect. You've been following?"

She shrugs. "Not religiously, but, sometimes. It's-" She waves her hand, careful not to knock over the martini in front of her. "It's a lot, you know?"

Jon swallows. He thinks about having to listen to her speak so intimately into his earbuds for two hours a week, and even though he doesn't get the same pang he used to get when he thinks about her, it is a lot. "Yeah. I can imagine."

She shakes herself, settling back into a grin. "But if I want to keep up with people around here, I have to listen. I'm not sure there's a Democrat left in Washington who doesn't hang on your every word with bated breath."

"What I always wanted," he jokes.

"I know." She nudges his shoulder. "You've really made it."

"Oh, I see how it is. Head speechwriter wasn't impressive enough for you, huh?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, because being unimpressed by you was always our problem."

No, no, she's right, that was never their problem. He needs a drink. He waves his hand to the bartender, who comes over to shake his hand with a grin, like the past few years haven't even happened.

"Hey, Jon. Welcome back to DC. We've missed you around here. Gin and tonic?"

"I haven't missed it at all," Jon tells him, reaching for joking but falling much closer to the truth. "And yes, please."

Emily traces the rim of her glass with her index finger. "You really don't miss it, do you?"

"Honestly?" Jon thinks about the morning before they left for Philadelphia, the sun rising over Wilshire as he stood in Lovett's backyard and threw the ball for Leo and kept Pundit clear of the cacti. He smiles. "I really don't. I love LA."

"I figured." She's a little wistful, her smile slipping a little. "You really do look good."

"All those late hours in a windowless recording studio are doing wonders for my tan." He flexes his forearm, frowning at the way the iridescent lights flash off his skin.

She shakes her head, exasperated. "Now that- that false humility. I don't miss that at all."

"I love it when we meet up. I always feel so good about myself afterwards." He rolls his eyes, but when the bartender comes over with his drink, he does tip his glass towards her. "Cheers, to my false humility."

"And finally finding an outlet for it," she clinks their glasses together, her eyes dancing with humor. 

"It's been a long time coming." He lets his eyes, drop, seriously to hers. "I'm just sorry for all the things that got lost in-between."

She takes a deep breath, and he watches her throat work around it. 

When he looks at her, he can still see her as she was the day he left. Her arms crossed across her chest as she stood on the curb outside their townhouse, her back so straight and strong and proud, her eyes wet just at the corners. He can still remember watcher her watching him until she was just a pinprick of regret in his rearview mirror.

The few times they've met up since, that's the only Emily he's been able to see and he realizes, now, just how unfair that has been. She's so much more than the woman he left on that curb. She's the woman she was on their first date, her hands folded in her lap to keep her from knocking over her wine glass, as, he would find out very quickly, she's wont to do. She's the woman she was night after night during the ACA fight, letting him rant to her or, when the world go too much, letting him hide against her shoulder. She's the woman she is now, so confident and settled in her body, partly the woman he knew then and partly someone new and wonderful. For years, he's felt so much regret. But, now, the only regret he feels is the regret that he'll never know this version of her, not fully, not the way he once did.

And now, finally, when he looks at her, he can see all these women she is. She is his past and, when he closes his eyes, he can see so clearly now, that Lovett is his future. Lovett grumbling in the early morning chill, his curls mussed and wild around his ears. Lovett crying against his neck on the darkest of nights they've shared, then straightening his shoulders and pushing for them both to keep fighting, against DACA and healthcare repeal and tax reform and the thousands of fights they're going to have to fight in the future. Lovett finding humor and the good in everyone and everything, burying his vulnerabilities in Leo's fur and Jon's life, like he belongs there, like he belongs there forever.

Jon takes a deep breath. "It was never going to work, was it?"

She shakes her head. "No, it wasn't." She smiles. "Not that it wasn't hard, when you left. You're a hard man to get over, Jon Favreau, but I'm good now. I'm happy."

"The environment lawyer?"

She smiles, private and shy, her whole face lighting up like he's never seen it, not even when they were at their happiest. "He wants to be a judge, but, yes, the environmental lawyer. He loves me. We're happy."

"I'm glad." She frowns at him and he chuckles. "No, seriously, I am."

"And you?" She ducks her head, peering at him through her lashes. "You look happy, too."

"I'm-" Jon trips over his words. "Yeah, I'm, ahh, figuring it out."

"Tell Lovett he has my blessing. Not that he needs it."

Jon splutters on his drink. Emily rolls her eyes, handing over a napkin. He takes it with shaking hands, cleaning the gin off his chin. He can't look at her. "You knew?"

"It wasn't that hard to figure out." She shrugs, her eyes a little wistful. "The way you light up when you talk about him. The way you watch him. The way you- Hell, you moved all the way across the country for him."

"Not _for_ him."

She purses her lips, the way she used to when he was being particularly thick. "If it was right - if we were right - I would have gone with you in a heartbeat and never looked back." Her voice softens. "You never looked back."

When she says it like that- Jon's heart pounds in his chest. "You make it sound so easy."

"Maybe it is." She touches his wrist. "I know you, Jon, and I'm intimately acquainted with how you like to overcomplicate things."

"Yeah." He chuckles. "You're an amazing woman, you know that?"

She brushes her hair over her shoulder. "I know." Her phone buzzes on the counter and she smiles as she looks at it. "I've gotta go, but, it was really nice to catch up. Next time you're in town, we should do dinner, all of us."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "You, me, Lovett, and the environmental lawyer? If ever I heard a recipe for disaster-"

She chuckles. "Bring Tommy. He's good at mediating."

"He'll love that." Jon stands, too, throwing a few bills on the counter and pulling on his jacket. 

They part ways outside the bar, and he watches her walk away for a moment, waiting for the pinch of longing that never comes, before heading back to the hotel.

He pulls his coat tighter around him and, still, he's shivering a little when he gets back, blinking his eyes in the bright lights of the lobby. Dan and Tommy are there, drinking beers and half-watching basketball in the small hotel bar.

Their heads are bent over Tommy's phone, both laughing deeply, as Jon makes his way over. "Hey."

Tommy's head snaps up. "You're back early," he says, slowly.

Jon shrugs, nodding at Tommy's phone. "What's so funny?"

"Ah." Dan eyes him carefully, his voice forced-steady. "Lovett took Elijah with him to karaoke. He's getting some good content."

Tommy presses play on Elijah's private Instagram story. The video is a little shaky, Elijah's laughter loud enough to cover most of the music, but Jon can make out Lovett on stage, dressed in a striped t-shirt that's at least a size too small for him. His arm is slung around someone's shoulders, their heads bent together as they belt out Mariah Carey.

Jon squints. "Isn't that Corn Flakes guy?"

Tommy shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Dan frowns. "Who's Corn Flakes guy?"

"Lovett had a, ahh, thing?, with him, when we were living in DC," Tommy says, pausing the video and refusing to look at Jon. "We'd see him, sometimes, at the breakfast table. He only ever ate Corn Flakes. Dry. I think he worked at DOJ?"

Jon swallows. "Communications, yeah." His stomach feels thick and heavy and way too high in his throat.

"Anyway." Tommy pockets his phone, turning and finally looking at Jon. "How's Emily?"

"She's good." It comes out more bitter than he meant it, and he forces himself to try again. "The environmental guy is going to be a judge. She seems really happy."

"That's, ahh, good. I'm glad." Tommy shakes his beer. "I'm gonna get another one. What do you want?"

Jon shakes his head. "I'm actually pretty tired. I'm gonna head to bed. I'll see you in the morning." He ignores the way they both watch him as he walks away, stabbing the elevator button way more strongly than necessary.

When he gets to his room, he strips to his briefs and sits on the edge of his bed. He sends off a quick _great to catch up_ text to Emily, then turns the brightness all the way up on his phone and switches over to Instagram. He watches Elijah's story, squinting his eyes at the screen and trying not to read everything into the tilt of Lovett's hips and the length of his neck as he laughs at the camera. Jon watches the story three times, half-heartedly palming himself through his briefs, before he realizes that Elijah's tech savvy enough that he might be able to see how many times Jon's watched.

With great effort, he plugs his phone in on the opposite side of the room and crawls into bed.

He doesn't know how long he lies awake in the dark, waiting for Lovett to knock on his door, drunk and loose and wanting to blow off some of the steam that's been building between them.

It never happens.

***

Lovett misses breakfast the next morning, and when he climbs into the van with seconds to spare, he demands they stop at Starbucks on the way to canvassing for Ralph Northam in Virginia.

"We're running late already," Tommy complains.

Lovett types a few things into his phone, then hands it up to Dan, who's sitting in the passenger seat next to Elijah. "There's a drive-through that'll only add 5 minutes to the trip. It'll be worth it." 

"I could use some caffeine, too," Jon says. He doesn't know what time he finally drifted into a fitful sleep, but his eyes are burning and his skin feels dry and hot, so it had to have been close to morning.

Lovett throws him an unreadable look from under the sunglasses he's wearing despite the early morning murkiness. Then he turns to the window, pulling his Pod Save America baseball cap lower on his forehead and resting against the cool of the window.

Jon forces himself to look away, focusing on picking a Twitter fight with the head of the Virginia RNC. It lasts him until they get to Starbucks.

Lovett orders two venti iced coffees and sucks one down between the Starbucks and the DNC headquarters in Richmond. By the time they get there, he's recovered enough to fold his sunglasses into the cup holder. His eyes are rimmed with dark circles, and Jon's chest twinges.

"Stay here. I'm gonna figure out where we need to go," Elijah tells them, as he pulls the van into a parking lot and climbs out.

Dan and Tommy exchange a loot, then follow him. "We're just gonna-" Tommy offers.

"Stretch our legs," Dan finishes. He closes the door behind him.

Jon lets the silence stretch for a long moment, before he turns his head, reaching out to tap his fingers against Lovett's thigh. "Hey."

Lovett's thigh twitches, and he crosses his legs.

Jon's throat feels dry. He swallows. "I, ahh, waited up for you. Last night."

"Oh." Lovett looks out across the parking lot, like Tommy taking pictures of their tour bus for social media is the most interesting thing he's ever seen. "I went out." He's quiet for a moment, then he sighs. Jon watches his throat as it falls into the collar of the wrinkled navy t-shirt he's wearing. "How was Emily?"

"She's fine. She says hi." Jon flips his phone in his hands. "The environmental lawyer is going to be a judge."

Lovett snorts. "We all fall for our fathers, in the end."

"Yeah," Jon chuckles. It's not quite the opening he's been hoping for, but- "Speaking of, after we're done with canvassing today, I think we should- I mean, I'd like to- could we-?"

Elijah knocks on the side of the van, and Lovett scrambles out of his seat.

"-talk," Jon finishes, sighing into the empty van before following him.

***

"I'm Sarah. I'm running volunteer operations today. It's so nice that you came all the way here, we really appreciate it."

"Of course." Jon shakes her hand. Between the coffee and the atmosphere at Northam headquarters, Jon's almost forgotten the unease and exhaustion of the morning. "We may be coastal elites, but we're doing everything we can for the whole country. It's really amazing what you've pulled together here."

Sarah beams. She can't be more than 22, straight out of Georgetown. Jon remembers what it was like to be that young and idealistic. Trump hadn't been elected during his first eligible election, though, and he's pretty impressed by this campaign's ability to keep up such positive energy.

He can feel it everywhere. In the candidates' speeches. In the constituents who answer their doors and have thoughtful questions about Medicare expansion and the tax bill. In the organizers who are overworked and exhausted, but only show it in the amount of coffee they work through as the day goes on.

It's so inspiring that Jon almost forgets to notice that Lovett still hasn't actually looked at him since they touched down in Philadelphia a few days ago. At least, until Lovett touches his elbow in late afternoon and nods towards the door. "My flight leaves in a couple of hours, so I've gotta take off. See me out?"

Jon grabs a donut from the volunteer table as he follows Lovett out onto the sidewalk. A woman carrying three shopping bags and wearing a Northam pin bumps his shoulder and he raises an apologetic hand. "This is amazing, isn't it?" Jon motions to the sea of volunteers around them, feeling inspired but wishing, for just a moment, that they could be alone just long enough for Jon to kiss him before sending him off to New York. 

For a moment, Lovett's face splits into a grin - "it's fucking incredible" - before he looks down again, shoving his hands into his front pockets. His elbows bow out in front of him, a very physical barrier between them. "Look, I'm gonna be in NY for a few days and, when I get back, I think we should stop."

"Stop what?" Jon shakes his head. "Being so negative? I don't actually think we have been. No, no, hear me out. Just 'cause we're not deluding ourselves anymore- I think we've been pretty realistic about New Jersey and Virginia."

Lovett looks up, catching Jon's eyes for the first time in days. His own are red and rimmed in deep, dark caverns. Jon wonders if he's slept at all since the flight to Philly.

"No." Lovett pulls one of his hands out of his pockets, motioning between their chests like Jon's the one who isn't making sense. "This. Us. Hooking up."

"Oh." Jon stomach drops to his knees, and he struggles to catch it.

"I've had a really good time," Lovett rushes to add. "It's been- great. But I need to- these things run their course, yeah?"

Jon runs, frantically, through all the things he's been planning to say. Things like _I want to try this, for real_ and _please come home with me for Thanksgiving_ and _I don't ever want to wake up another morning without you_. They sit on his tongue like ash.

Lovett's saying _hook-up_ while Jon's thinking about matching bowties.

He's never felt so stupid in his life.

A Corolla pulls up to the curb, a bright pink Lyft sticker in the front windshield. Lovett nods at it. "This is me. I'll, um, call you from New York?" He shakes his head. "I mean, I'll talk to you. On Monday. For the Pod."

Jon's mouth feels like sawdust, and he's pretty sure his voice cracks as he says, "have a good show," but he can't be sure. He can't hear a thing over the pounding in his ears.

Lovett watches him for another moment, before nodding to himself and climbing into the car without a second look back.

Jon watches long after the car has disappeared over the horizon.

Every version of regret he's ever felt burrows heavily into his chest.

***

Jon doesn't remember much about getting from Northam headquarters to the airport. He remembers thanking the DNC organizers as profusely as he could from within his fog. He remembers saying goodbye to Dan at the airport, ignoring the worried look Dan throws his way as he boards his flight to San Francisco. He remembers Tommy's hand on his elbow, guiding him to their gate and placing a couple of pills into his palm to counteract Jon's flying anxiety.

The next thing he remembers is settling into the seat next to Tommy and pulling up the election coverage on his tablet. He must have reluctantly paid for the WiFi at some point, but he can't quite place the memory.

The moment they take off, Tommy nods off next to him, drooling endearingly against the head rest. Jon takes a photo, automatically opens his private conversation with Lovett, and promptly switches over to the company-wide Slack channel. He uploads the photo, captioning it _no rest for Democratic warriors_ , and watches comments come in from Tanya, Dan, Elijah, and Sarah.

Lovett doesn't comment.

Lovett's probably asleep, full on his mother's meatloaf, surrounded by index cards with scribbled ideas for Friday's LOLI. He's probably curled awkwardly onto his side, careful not to crush the cards, his curls wild on his pillow. He's probably-

Jon forces his mind back to twitter and the fight he's picking with a Virginian RNC organizer.

The thing is- The thing is that Jon knows he can't do this. He can't wallow in the break-up of a relationship that never actually was. If he let it go far beyond the year-long hook-up that is was, if he let himself imagine their future, if he forgot that he's not actually what Lovett wants, well, that's on him. It doesn't make the gnawing ache any less real, though.

And if he's a little grateful that Lovett's in New York for the few days it'll take to get his feet back under him, then there's nothing wrong with that.

Jon will get over it.

Just as soon as he remembers how to breathe without Lovett next to him.

Jon closes his phone, puts it face down on his tray table, and tries to sleep through the nausea.

***

They land mid-morning to the bright LA sun and good news from the elections. Jon doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must have because his eyes are sticky with sand as he scrolls through chains of texts from people on the ground in New Jersey and Virginia.

"I don't even wanna say it," Tommy says, as they stop at the curb outside Terminal 2. "But this is all good news."

"For now," Jon warns, before he lets himself smile. "Shit, this feeling is scary. I can't even place it-"

"Hope?" Tommy offers. "Jesus, I can't even think that word anymore, none-the-less say it."

Jon laughs.

"I'm calling a Lyft. You heading straight to the office?"

"Gotta pick up the dogs first." Jon pulls up his Lyft app. "See you there in an hour or so?"

"Yeah." Tommy steps forward, throwing his bag in the back of his Lyft. "Don't pick any more Twitter fights between now and then."

Jon raises his middle finger but, when his own ride gets there, asks immediately to switch the radio to the news.

"You're, ahh, some kind of political nut, huh?" His driver asks, as he scrolls through the AM dial, searching for talk that is not Fox. "I didn't even know there were elections today."

Jon shoves his phone into his pocket and focuses his full attention on the front seat. Picking a fight with his Lyft driver, Jon figures, doesn't count as disobeying Tommy's orders. Or, at least, it's less public, as long as Tommy never scrolls through his Lyft ratings.

***

They win governorships in Virginia and New Jersey.

They win State House races up and down the ballot in Georgia, Washington, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Michigan, and New Hampshire.

They pass Medicare expansion in Maine, with nearly 60% of the vote.

They haven't had a non-Presidential night this successful for Democrats since 2006. Jon knows that the win can't be placed squarely at Crooked Media's feet, but it just feels good to be part of the conversation again during an election that really fucking matters and which, miraculously, tipped their way for the first time years.

Jon wants to go out - half to celebrate and half to delay the inevitable of returning to his cold, empty house - but Tommy begs off under the guise of having been away from Hanna for the past week. Dan listens to him read tweets from pissed-off Republicans for as long as he can, before finally saying, both apologetically and gratefully, "Howli's giving me murder eyes, so I've gotta go show my wife how much I've missed her, but breathe a little easier, tonight's a good one," and hanging up his phone.

Jon runs out of ways to delay it, and finally heads home where he spends another hour or so reading his Twitter feed to Leo and Pundit, speaking loud enough to drown out the CNN pundits. Leo eventually settles under the coffee table, his ball cradled happily between his paws and his back turned pointedly towards Jon. Pundit sniffs half-heartedly at the open Chinese take-out containers, before crawling between Jon and his phone, resting her head purposefully on the screen.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he mutters, scratching her ears. "I'm insufferable, I get it, you don't need to rub it in."

He snaps a picture of her, her eyes open and her nose in the crook of his elbow. Before he can think twice about it, he opens his private WhatsApp chain with Lovett and uploads it with the caption, _happy Election Day_.

Jon watches the checkmarks turn green as Lovett reads it. Then he waits, his heart beating so wildly that Pundit whines, tilting her head and pressing her ear to his chest, her eyes big and worried.

"I'm just being ridiculous," he promises her, stretching out along the couch and curling his body around hers. On CNN, Jake Tapper interviews a split-screen of New Jersey voters railing against Chris Christie.

Jon's phone buzzes and he nearly elbows Pundit in his rush to check his messages.

_give her a kiss for me_

Jon buries his head in her neck, breathing deeply. 

On the TV, Tapper moves on to Virginia.

Jon's body buzzes with the red eye the night before, the mostly-empty bottle of wine on his coffee table, the smile on Northam's face, glaring back at him in 4K from the big, new television set he bought himself back when Crooked HQ was his dining room table. 

On CNN, Northam passes the mic to Danica Roem, the first openly transgender woman to be elected to state legislature. In fucking Virginia. Running against the self-inflected "chief homophobe" incumbent on a platform based on traffic congestion. Breaking down gender barriers through traffic court. Returning to grass roots politics, the way Democrats used to win, before Citizens United and super PACs and Twitter and snowflakes. The way democracy should to be.

Fuck.

Jon reaches down, flattening his hand against his stomach. He's buzzing with it all, his skin warm to his touch. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that it's someone else's skin trembling under his hand, craving his touch. Like, maybe, Lovett can't get enough of it. Can't get enough of it until, suddenly, he could. 

Shit. Jon backtracks, sliding his fingers under his waist band and cupping himself through his briefs. He's hard already, inspired by democracy in action and the days since Lovett last touched him. He can just remember, when he reaches for it, the last time they did this. He can still feel what it had felt like to push Lovett into the mess of their suitcases, drop his head between Lovett's thighs, and make absolutely sure that they'd have to run a load of laundry to rewash all the clothes they meant to pack for Philly.

The way Lovett had looked at him then. Wide, laughing eyes, tracking his every movement like, maybe, he was as lost in Jon as Jon was in him. As Jon still is. As Jon- Jon flattens his palm against his dick, pumping a couple of times, feeling the cotton grow wet under his fingertips.

Pundit whines at his elbow, before jumping off the couch and joining Leo under the coffee table. Leo pulls his ball further away from her, but he does let her rest her head on his stomach.

Jon looks away, closing his eyes again as he flattens his back against the couch. His sweatpants are hanging low on his hips, and he adjusts himself, making enough space to pull his dick through the vertical slit of his TommyJohns. His hands are big and too tan and he can feel the burn on his thumb that's still healing months after he burned it on the grill. The grill Lovett leaves on his back porch but never touches, the one Jon had to scrub clean of years-old grime before he could smoke the burgers Lovett had been moaning over for days. They had been good, Jon remembers, but nowhere near as good as the image of Lovett licking grease and oozing blue cheese from his fingers.

Lovett's fingers are blunt and soft, the pads calloused from hours behind his laptop and even more hours behind a controller. If Jon squeezes himself a little softer than comes natural and a lot more insistent, he can almost forget that Lovett isn't there. Lovett's thumb isn't catching right under the head. Lovett's index finger isn't tracing through the precome at the tip. Lovett's free hand isn't caressing his balls, pushing his briefs aside, reaching back back back.

Jon gasps, loud against the backdrop of CNN, of Pundit snuffling in her sleep, of Leo chewing on his ball.

Jon misses the way Lovett would talk, all faux breathy in Jon's ear, fake cracks in his words meant to cover how desperate he really was. Jon misses pushing him, teasing him, leaving him hanging right on the edge, until his voice really did crack and he'd pant and cry, and it was all for Jon. Because of Jon. 

Jon misses the way Lovett would flush, his pale skin pink in places Jon never imagined in the ten years Jon thought he knew Lovett better than anyone else, but didn't really know him at all. Jon knows, now, that Lovett blushes behind his knees, in the crook of his elbow, in a long line across his shoulder blades, along his ass crack and spreading up across his lower back. Jon's not sure how he's supposed to go back to not knowing what Lovett looks like with his pleasure made manifest across his skin.

Jon misses the way Lovett would be, afterwards. Soft limbs, soft voice, softened edges around his neediness as he'd bend and mold Jon to his liking. How he'd bury his head in the curve of Jon's neck, how he'd slip his knee between Jon's, how he'd whine for Jon to get up and let the dogs in, because, after all, Lovett "did all the work." He misses the way Lovett would laugh, how he'd kiss behind Jon's ear, how he'd bend and twist and beg with his body until Jon slipped a finger back in, just for a little while longer, just until it started to burn. Jon always hoped it was because Lovett wanted the little reminder of Jon to take with him, the reminder of what they'd been doing, even hours later.

_The Audacity of Hope._

Jon learned how to hope from the best.

Jon misses the way his body responded to the smallest of things. To clothed mouth kisses and the higher octave Lovett uses to read ads. To a hand on his collarbone and the way Lovett talks with his hands on stage. To the way Lovett swallows, waits, unsure in the split second after a joke.

Jon misses the way Lovett's body responded to him, the way he'd arch his back, push himself closer and closer, like there was no such thing as close enough.

Jon misses the care Lovett took to prepare him, the way he kissed the insides of Jon's thighs, the amount of time he'd spend between Jon's legs.

Jon misses the jokes Lovett would make, the moment before Jon pushed into him, Blue Apron-style.

Jon misses the sounds Lovett made when Jon sucked him just right, the whine that started deep in Lovett's chest, the way Jon's name fell from his lips like a mantra.

Jon misses the curve of Lovett's thigh, the swell of his ass, the softness around his hips. He misses the length of Lovett's throat and the stray hair that curls wildly around his ears. He misses Lovett's eyes and the shape of his smile.

Jon misses the way Lovett would go quiet, his whole body freezing up in the moment before he came, the only time Jon has ever seen him still and silent.

Jon's stomach curls, his orgasm punched out of him before he even realizes he's close. His thighs feel weak and strung out, his hand covered in his come when he pulls it out of his sweats, his breathing ragged. He feels unmoored, like his body isn't his and his mind is definitely not under his control.

He misses Lovett with an ache that he's never experienced, and it's only been 24 hours. He doesn't know how he's supposed to live like this for another 60 years.

He lies, trembling, on the couch, and comes up with a ten-step plan.

Step one. Shower. He rolls to his feet, wiping his hand on his sweatpants and trudging into his bathroom. He strips, dropping his dirty clothes in the laundry basket that's already full from the Tour, and steps into the tub. Lovett's shampoo is still sitting on the sill and Jon stares at it for a long time, before squeezing a huge dollop into his palm.

It smells like Lovett.

Step one, Jon figures, is more than enough for day one.

The dogs join him outside the shower, racing him for the bedroom, then waiting for him to settle before joining him. Pundit curls around his feet, resting her head on her paws and skewering him with wide, accusatory eyes after the couch incident earlier. Leo, though, rests his head on Lovett's side of Jon's pillow.

Jon is so grateful for him that he wants to cry.

Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself to sleep.

***

Lovett takes the redeye back to LA after Friday's LOLI. Jon only knows because Elisa posts a few IG videos from LaGuardia. One of Lovett staring up at the taco menu of some generic airport Mexican restaurant, engrossed in it like it's new Mueller indictments, his shirt sleeves hanging so low over his hands that the Henley must be Jon's. And a second of Lovett sitting on the floor at the gate, a container of taco salad on his knees, his headphones too large for his face. He needs a haircut.

It's early afternoon when Pundit lifts her head, her ears perking up as she races to the front door. She whines, standing on her back paws so she can scratch impatiently at the door jamb.

Jon pauses the Netflix movie that's been playing on his TV, just so he can pretend he definitely was not waiting for Lovett to get home and scrolling absently through Twitter.

"Hey, hey." Jon pats Pundit's head, pulling her away so he can get the door open.

She whines, wiggling against his hand and squeezing through the door the moment he has it open wide enough for her to squeeze through. By the time Jon has it open completely, Lovett's squatting on his stoop, chasing Pundit's happy, wiggling body with his hands. 

"I missed you too, Angel," Lovett tells her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head when he gets her to still for long enough. "Were you good for Jon?"

She whines, bumping her head against Lovett's chin. He grunts, pulling his head up and away. He doesn't quite meet Jon's eyes, but when he's not buried in Pundit's fur, Lovett looks even worse than he did in Richmond. Deep, red patches at his temples where, Jon knows, he rubs his eyes when they're burning with exhaustion. His curls are matted under his ball cap, sticking against his forehead with more than a cross-country flight's worth of carelessness. The muscles in his back are taut against his worn, greying t-shirt.

Jon wants to ask him inside.

Jon wants to force him into a shower, then into his bed, to sleep for at least 12 straight hours.

Jon wants to kiss his forehead, the corners of his eyes, that spot between his shoulder blades that knots when he's stressed.

Before he can say any of that, though, Lovett pulls Pundit into his arms and stands. "Thanks. For watching her. You didn't, ahh, have to do that." 

Jon frowns, but Lovett's eyes are trained on the small patch of cacti at the end of Jon's driveway. "Of course. She's welcome anytime. You know that," he chastises, as gently as he can.

Lovett flinches. It looks painful, with as tight as his shoulders are.

Jon sighs. "I, um, have a bag of those treats she likes. Leo won't eat them. If you wanna come in for a minute, I'll grab them."

Lovett shakes his head. "I'm running low at the office, if you could, um-"

"Sure." Jon swallows. "Yeah, I'll bring them on Monday."

"Thanks, again. For watching her. Sorry to pick up and run, but I haven't been home in over a week and my Xbox is calling," Lovett tries for a joke and misses by a mile.

Jon doesn't call him on it. "Sure, 'course."

Lovett turns, cradling Pundit with one hand and grabbing the handle of his suitcase with the other. Jon watches the curve of his back as he walks away, for the second time in less than a week.

Day five isn't really an easier than day one.

***

"I know politics sucks right now, and I promise, I have a lot to say about the Me Too movement and Tom Marino stalling this fucking opioid crisis, but, just look at her." 

Tommy smiles, wider and prouder than Jon has ever seen him, and Jon's been there for all of Tommy's big moments. His promotion to NSC spokesperson, his engagement to Hanna, founding two mostly-successful business. Tommy's staring at his new puppy, though, like none of that has ever matter.

"Just look at her," he repeats.

Jon laughs, sitting down on the company couch next to her. She rights herself, slipping across the cushions so she can stare at him for a long, anxious moment, before she climbs onto his thighs. Her whole body is shaking, barely the length of his palm, as he pets her. She yips, reaching for his fingers with her teeth. "Lovett will be happy that Pundit isn't the only barking dog around here now."

Tommy laughs from behind his camera. "It'll be awhile before she joins us on Pods. I'll train her out of it by then." Tommy moves, tipping onto the sides of his shoes so he can get a better angle on his video. Lucca grabs at Jon's sleeve, shaking it in her teeth as she growls. "Maybe," Tommy shrugs, glancing over his shoulder. "Elijah, are you getting this? This is good content."

Elijah gives them a thumbs up from behind his phone.

"Stage parent," Jon coughs, but he can't not smile as Lucca climbs his chest like a tree so she can reach his ear better. 

"Practicing." Tommy tucks his phone under his armpit and reaches forward to rescue Jon's face. Lucca wiggles in his hands, pushing against his chest with her deceivingly-strong legs, fighting to get back to Jon. Tommy's smile softens. "Although, I can't imagine loving anything more than I love her. Having kids must be wild."

Jon swallows. "Yeah," he tries, but it comes out choked and embarrassing.

Tommy tilts his head, making room for Lucca to lick his cheek, and gives Jon one of those inscrutable looks that he's been using more and more over the past few weeks. Jon really wishes he could read them. 

"Did you see the photos from yesterday?" Tommy asks, slowly. He sits down next to Jon on the couch, so close their thighs are pressed together to create a bridge for Lucca. He pulls up his camera roll and hands it over.

Jon's chest tightens as he looks at Lovett, pushed back against the couch by Lucca's enthusiasm. His hands look so small around her body, and his hat is pushed back on his forehead, his mouth open, like he was talking to her, telling her how cute she is, how much she'll be loved in this makeshift family they've created. Jon swipes to the next picture. Lovett's grinning at her, and he still looks tired, his eyes are still red and his face is a little blotchy, but he looks happy, really happy. Jon swipes for the next one. Lovett is pushed all the way back in the cushions, his back bowed like he's trying to fight her off, like he's letting her win. Jon swipes for the next one, and the next one, and the next one, until he lands on a photo of Hanna on their bed, Lucca curled in her lap.

Jon hands the phone back. He rubs at his chest, right above his heart, where it aches from all the beating.

Lucca chases his hand, trying to catch his fingers with her mouth. He lets her.

"I was thinking," Tommy says, sounding strained and far away, and Jon doesn't know how much of that is Tommy and how much is him. "We should get the dogs together this weekend. Introduce Lucca to Leo and Pundit, get them started early, you know?"

Jon squeezes his eyes closed. Except for the exact hour they recorded the Pod on Monday, Lovett's been very careful to not be at the office any time Jon is. Jon doesn't think he'd appreciate forced weekend interaction.

He tries not to think about the times when Lovett's walked Pundit over the past few days, and Leo's lain by the front door, his head resting forlornly on his paws. He's not really handling the breakup any better than Jon is, and he understands it even less.

"Leo would like that," Jon says, instead, giving Lovett - giving both of them - an out. "Probably better, though, if we do one at a time. Safer for her, yeah?"

"Um, sure." Tommy frowns at him again. "That makes sense, I guess." 

"Cool. I'm free all weekend." 

***

Lovett and Tommy fly back to the East Coast for Thanksgiving, and Jon drives a few blocks to Andy's house. His parents asked if they could split the week between Jon and Andy, but Jon had begged off, citing his burgeoning media company and his absentee cofounders. 

He must say the last part harsher than he planned, though, because his dad had clucked his tongue and chastised him for "working too hard" and "forcing his values on his partners," before hanging up.

To make up for it, Jon arrives with armfuls of fresh pies from the bakery next to the office, the one that taunts Lovett on good and bad days. He hadn't even touched them, though, when Jon had brought a selection in for their last pre-holidays founder's meeting, under the pretense of testing his Thanksgiving selections, but really hoping to watch Lovett lick his fork clean.

He hadn't been disappointed.

He's still thinking about it when Tommy sends a message halfway through the afternoon. It's a picture of Lucca in a turkey hat, a speech bubble coming out of her mouth that says _Happy Thanksgiving, can I have some of that steak?_

Jon types out an inoffensive _happy thanksgiving_ but pauses over the send button as Lovett's name appears next to an ellipses.

He waits. 

And he waits, feeling stupid that he won't let himself just send his message first.

Finally, Lovett sends a selfie of him and Pundit, his face half-hidden by her fur, with the message _Pundit's a vegetarian now_.

Jon deletes his stupid, innocuous message and is still thinking about how to respond when his dad joins him.

Mark sits sideways on the chaise lounge next to Jon's and switches Jon's long-forgotten gin and tonic for a fresh glass. "Hey, kid."

"Hey." Jon drops his phone, facedown, next to his hip. "I don't think I said it yet, but it's nice to have you here."

Leo finally leaves the ball in the pool and trots over to Mark, raising onto his hind legs and pushing into Mark's hand.

Jon chuckles. "He's looking for turkey."

"Well," Mark tells him out of the corner of this mouth, "if you don't tell your dad, I've got a plate with your name on it. Might even be smothered in gravy, if you're extra good." 

Leo's ears perk up and he rests his head on his paws on Mark's thigh, making his eyes as wide as possible.

"Shit," Mark says, looking up at Jon. "This is why I could never say 'no' to you when you were a kid."

Jon shakes his head. "I remember you saying 'no' plenty of times." His smile softens. "I remember you saying 'yes' a number of times, too."

"As often as I could." Mark pats Leo between his ears, scratching his fingernails into Leo's curls. "You were a good kid."

"As far as you knew." Jon reaches for his drink, taking a sip. It's nice and refreshing.

Mark raises an eyebrow. "You talking about the time you snuck out with the Simpro boy? Or the time with the Hansen girl from down the street?"

Jon chokes.

"Yeah," Mark grins. "I knew about those."

Jon tries to breathe, but the gin is going down the wrong tube and- fuck. He kinda figured his parents had known about Rosie Hansen. They had been giggling pretty loudly when they snuck down the stairs, and he's pretty sure they didn't skip the squeaky seventh step. He'd also definitely been grinning like the Cheshire Cat at breakfast the next morning. 

Joey Simpro, though- Jon had been pretty sure that he'd kept that one under wraps. Not that they'd ever done anything, besides trade favorite books - Joey's was, tellingly, A Separate Piece, and Jon's was, predictably, To Kill a Mockingbird - and practice sparring for Model UN. That night- Jon is absolutely certain that he'd skipped the seventh step when he'd snuck out to meet Joey in the field by their houses, and again when he'd snuck back in again a few hours later, despondent and broken-hearted. Sometimes, he wonders what turns his life would have taken if Joey had shown up in the field like he was supposed to that night.

Jon's thighs are trembling and he rubs his palms against them. He's sweating. After all these years, after Inaugural Addresses and State of the Unions and founding two companies and moving across the country, he's still shaking at the prospect of telling his parents he's not the boy who left their house at eighteen to go to Catholic School. That he never was that boy, not really.

Then again, maybe they already know. Maybe they've known all along.

Leo, sensing Jon's discomfort, pulls out of Mark's hand and climbs onto the lounge chair, curling himself in Jon's lap. Jon wraps his fingers in Leo's fur and takes a deep breath before saying, quietly, "Joey Simpro."

Mark smiles, a little sadly. "Yeah. You're not as subtle as you think. You never stopped talking about that boy."

Jon flushes. "I've never been good at hiding my emotions. I got that from you."

"You got that from your mother," Mark chastises, then shrugs. "And a little from me."

"Yeah." Jon looks down at Leo, who twists his head further into Jon's hands. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, then. Nothing ever actually- There wasn't anything to tell you about, really."

Mark takes a deep breath. He swirls the ice in his glass and stares out across the pool. "Is there something to tell me about, now?"

Jon's breath catches, then rushes out of him. He stumbles over "no," then, "not anymore."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Mark looks back at Jon, his smile small and sad. "I've never seen you as happy as you've been the past year."

Jon swallows, only managing to get out "yeah" around the lump of regret in his throat. If things had gone differently, Lovett might have been sitting on the end of Jon's chair, leaning against Jon's knees, laughing with Jon's father about coming out in his mid-thirties, about how pathetic that is, taking all the credit for tearing down Jon's closet after almost seventeen years. Jon misses him, a solid, weighty ache that makes it hard to breathe.

"Is it-" Mark reaches out, touching Jon's knee with the tips of his fingers. "I'm sorry we didn't have this conversation before now. If you were worried about what your mom or I would say-"

Jon shakes his head, manages to say, "no, it's not that," because it feels important, more important, maybe, than the ache.

"-you have to know that we love you and support you. Nothing you could ever do or say would change that."

Jon shakes his head, dropping his chin to kiss between Leo's ears so that his dad can't see the tears in his eyes, even though he's sure it's coming through in every word. "I do know that. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

Mark shrugs. "Your time, your choice."

"Hey, you two lazy bums," Lillian calls from the door to the patio. "Dinner's almost ready, if you could see it in yourselves to set the table."

Mark laughs, squeezing Jon's knee. "I learned long ago that the secret to a long marriage is doing what your mother says." He pauses, his voice dropping seriously. "Can I just- Look, I know it's not my place, and what the hell do I know about these kinds of romances, anyway?"

Jon chuckles wetly. "Just a romance, Dad. Same as any."

"Right." Mark flushes a little. "Sorry, I don't quite have the lingo down."

Leo turns his eyes, big and wide, on Jon's dad, and Jon makes a note to buy him the biggest bone in the store on their way home.

"Anyway," Mark slaps his knees, using the leverage to stand, slowly, as he says, "I don't know what happened between you two, and you don't need to tell me, but anyone who can make you talk the way you have the past few months, well, he might just be worth a little bit of extra effort."

That ache settles, hard, in the center of Jon's chest, and he tries to nod around it. He's not sure he succeeds.

"Your mother was," Mark finishes, with a wink. He squeezes Jon's shoulder as he heads inside to set the table.

Jon reaches for his phone, types out _I miss you_ before he can stop himself.

He deletes it before he can send it.

***

Lovett comes back from Thanksgiving with a cold. "Fucking snow," he mutters as they file into the studio on Monday morning, as if he doesn't miss seasons more than any of them.

"I blame the four redeyes you've taken in the past, like, two weeks." Tommy eyes him critically. "Maybe you should, I don't know, tour a little less."

Lovett's eyes flit to Jon briefly, then down to the table. "I can't let down my adoring fans."

Jon frowns. 

Lovett coughs, pulling his sleeve over his fingers and using it to cover his mouth.

Tommy rolls his eyes. "You're letting them down by not taking fucking care of yourself," he says, harsher than he needs to be. "Are you even able to record? Isn't the microphone gonna pick up all the sniffling and stuff?"

Lovett's eyes are glassy with fever, but he manages to look hurt on top of it. "I'm fine. I'll keep the coughing to a minimum."

"You do that."

"Okay, so-" Jon looks from Tommy to Lovett, then down at his notes. "We'll do some housekeeping, then the Donor Relief Act, then Roy Moore-"

"Doug Jones," Lovett corrects, then coughs into his hand. "Sorry, just, thinking of the positive."

"Doug Jones," Jon agrees, wanting to ask, again, if Lovett's okay, but not about to incur Tommy's wrath. "Then Nancy Pelosi's fuck up on Meet the Press and a section I'm calling 'A look at our budding catastrophacy.'"

Tommy chuckles.

Lovett nods and deadpans, "fun Pod."

"Thing are going fine here in the Age of Trump."

"Swimmingly," Lovett agrees, catching Jon's eyes. 

Jon wants to hold him there, for as long as he possibly can, but Michael is waving at him to get the show started. He sighs, turning back to his mic. "Welcome to Pod Save America, I'm Jon Favreau-"

"I'm-" Lovett coughs. "Sorry, can I-" He pauses long enough to put an editing break in. "I'm Jon Lovett."

Tommy's still glaring as he finishes, "I'm Tommy Vietor."

It's a good show. Well, it's a fine show, or at least Jon's pretty sure it is, but he's a little distracted by how hard Lovett's trying not to disrupt them, even though his eyes are a little wet from holding in sneezes and his nose is getting redder and rawer as the morning ticks by.

Tommy's up as soon as they're done, pushing his chair back abruptly. "Lucca has a vet appointment. I'll be online later."

Lovett watches him go, then slowly gathers his laptop and his cup of Diet Coke.

"What's up with him today?" Jon asks.

Lovett shrugs.

Jon closes his eyes, slipping his tablet under his arm, and tries again. "I'm gonna run down to Starbucks - it's a caffeine kinda day. You want anything?"

Lovett glances at him, then looks down again. "Um, I'm good, thanks, though."

"No problem." Jon grabs his sunglasses and Leo's leash and heads down the strip mall to the Starbucks walking distance from them. He gets Lovett an iced latte, anyway, and ducks into a CVS on his way back to grab a pack of cough drops and a box of lotion-infused Kleenex.

When he gets back to the studio, Tanya looks up, her smile softening. "Lovett's in the studio."

"Thanks." He heads into the studio, stopping just behind the open curtain. Lovett's sitting, cross-legged on the floor, Pundit sleeping in his lap, her ears spread over his knee. His shirt is hanging loose over his shoulder and all the skin Jon can see is flushed with fever.

Jon watches until Lovett raises his head, his eyes still watering as they widen. He gestures to Michael, careful not to hit Pundit. "I'm, ahh, doing some pick-ups. Cause of, you know, the sniffling."

"Happens to the best of us," Jon smiles, stepping forward. He holds out the coffee and the CVS bag. "I know you said you didn't want anything, but I thought it'd be good for your throat."

Lovett doesn't look away as he accepts them. It has to be the longest Lovett has looked at him since Richmond, and it's definitely the softest. "Thanks," he says. "You didn't have to, but, thank you."

Jon shrugs. "I wanted to."

Lovett closes his eyes, looking away. 

Jon's whole body aches. "I'm, ahh, gonna leave you to it. When you're done, you should go home, get some sleep. I can do the ads myself."

Lovett nods. He doesn't say _my fans will be up in arms_ or _your ads are terrible without me_ , and that says as much as anything.

Jon ducks out of the room.

***

"You know what this road trip needs?" Lovett asks as he climbs into the van and steals the passenger seat for the drive to Santa Barbara on Friday morning. "Coffee. Also, some rocking tunes." He pops a cough drop into his mouth as he fiddles with the dial until Taylor Swift blasts through the car speakers.

"Rocking tunes?" Ira raises an eyebrow. "More like rocking oldies. 'Cause Swiftie's fans are all, you know, women as old as my grandmother."

Lovett turns in his seat, gaping at Ira. "I get the joke, but I don't grant the premise. In fact, I find it pretty offensive."

Ira shrugs. "We all know where you stand on the pop culture cool chart."

Lovett widens his eyes wide under his sunglasses and holds up his phone. "The only thing that can settle this fight is a straw poll. Livestream anyone?"

"I see you're feeling better," Jon deadpans.

"Like a new man," Lovett agrees, although it isn't entirely true. He still looks tired, his skin still too pink and his nose still a little sniffly.

Jon, on the other hand, can feel a niggling at the back of his throat that won't go away, no matter how often he tries to cough it up. It all seems tantalizingly unfair, really, that he's getting the cold, without ever actually getting the side effect of catching it from Lovett. "Lucky you," he murmurs, glancing down at his Instagram and rolling his eyes as he sees Lovett start the livestream. "Live, 572 people. What are you all watching for?" Jon chuckles.

"Okay, enough of that." Lovett stops the stream, dropping his phone into his lap and crossing his ankles on the dashboard. "Where's the coffee?"

"You're insufferable," Tommy calls from the backseat, as Elijah pulls into a drive-through Starbucks.

***

The Santa Barbara show goes fine.

The Sacramento show is better. Jon's still finding it difficult, though, to play along with Lovett's ability to evade him in private and act like absolutely nothing is wrong in public. It helps, Jon figures, that Lovett's on-stage persona is larger than life, all laughter and jokes built in to cover how much he really feels. Jon wishes that his brand wasn't so damn earnest.

He feels like he's just getting the hang of it - of showing up to breakfast just when Lovett's leaving, of Lovett evading eye contact during ad reads in Tommy's hotel room, of Lovett disappearing for long hours during the day without warning - by the time they finish the tour in Oakland. 

It's still a relief, though, when Lovett, Tommy, and Erin head to a steakhouse after the show with Kara Swisher and Jon finds himself on a bar stool next to Dan. 

Dan doesn't even raise an embarrassed eyebrow when Jon orders a gin and tonic to Dan's bourbon on the rocks. Jon probably should have known that Dan was buttering him up for the oven, or whatever that metaphor is. Cooking - and all related rhetoric - is not in Jon's wheelhouse.

Jon, though, scowls naively into his glass, and mutters, "Swisher is a lot."

Dan chuckles. "Yeah, she is. But we like political-savvy journalists who speak their minds."

"Sure," Jon agrees, but it's punched out of him between long sips of gin.

"And we like people who give Lovett a run for his money." Dan swirls his whiskey. "He was speechless. Remind me to rib him about it on Twitter later- it's not often I get these opportunities."

Jon scowls harder. He can feel the thick vein bulging in his forehead. 

"Are you-?" Dan laughs, a full-throated, gravely laugh. "Jon, you can't seriously be jealous over this. She's gay."

Jon shrugs. "She's pretty butch."

"Yeah, cause Lovett's type is butch lesbians." Dan shakes his head. "Have you ever looked at yourself in a fucking mirror?"

"I'm not Lovett's type, either," Jon says, before he can think better of it. He finishes his glass, then waves for another. He can't think of a single reason not to get spectacularly drunk tonight. "We broke up."

"Yeah, no shit."

Jon winces. The bartender drops a glass in front of him and he wraps his hands around it, gratefully.

"Did you think you were hiding that or something?"

"If I knew this was going to be an interrogation, I would have gone back to the hotel."

"If you didn't think this was going to be an interrogation, then you really have lost it."

They've had this stand-off before. Mostly at the White House, staring each other down over a particular line in the State of the Union or a press release Dan wanted to send. Jon rarely ever won those battles, and he doesn't win this one, either.

He drops his eyes, leaning his elbow against the bar and taking a deep, shaky breath. "I don't- Lovett's acting like nothing happened and I don't know how much longer I can pretend that my whole world hasn't shattered." Jon shakes his head. "If this company wasn't the only thing keeping me going, I'd think about-"

"Don't even say it." Dan stops him, scowling seriously. "This company is too important to too many people."

"I know, I know."

"And," Dan continues, his voice softening a little, "I know you don't want to believe me, but Lovett's handling this just as poorly as you are."

"Lovett's fine."

"He's really not. Have you _looked_ at him lately?"

"He doesn't stay in any room I'm in long enough for me to look at him," Jon says, trying not to sound too bitter.

Dan rolls his eyes. "Yeah, because that's normal." Dan sighs. "If you could only see the way he looks at you when you're not looking."

"That's awfully convenient," Jon bites back, then looks down at his drink. "Sorry. Just- I have a hard time believing- He broke up with _me_."

"So?"

"So, he had a choice and he made it."

"He didn't-"

"Dan,"

"No," Dan shakes his head. "Fine, whatever, he made a choice based on faulty data because you refused to give him all the facts. It's like you're actively trying to sabotage the best thing you've got going. So, what? You can blame it on him? Wallow without guilt?"

"Oh, I've got plenty of guilt." Jon's head hurts. Is he- Was he- No, fuck that. "Also, I tried to talk to him for fucking weeks. He didn't want to talk."

"Of course he didn't want to talk." Dan shakes his head. "Lovett has more insecurities than you and I put together and-" Dan lets out an impressed sound, "wow, that's gotta be a lot to deal with. I'm glad I don't have to be in his head."

"It's a lot," Jon agrees, quietly.

"But you- God, Jon, you should know that. If you care as much about him as I know you do- Look, I know they say love is blind and all that, but that's a crock of shit. Love is fucking seeing someone when no one else can. So open your fucking eyes."

Jon swallows. His gin feels ashen in his throat.

"Wouldn't it at least be worth asking him? Laying it all out, telling him how you feel, with actual, spoken words? Then you can call for a straight up and down vote." Dan shrugs. "You're fucking miserable, so what do you have to lose? At least you'll know how he actually feels, whichever way it goes."

Jon swallows. "That sounds terrifying."

"Writing a State of the Union is terrifying. Dropping everything to follow your 'best friend,'" Dan raises his hands so he can make air quotes, "across the country is terrifying. Finally loving him? I can't get inside your head - and thank god for that - but that seems inevitable more than anything else."

"Inside my head?" Jon points to his temple. "It's pretty fucking terrifying."

Dan chuckles. "Yeah, probably. Possibility always is. But if we've learned anything over the past 12 months, it's that possibility is a lot scarier than actually knowing."

"Yeah." Jon rubs at his eyes. They feel hot and crumbly, and he can't process in this dark bar in this strange city. "Can we, I don't know, talk about tax reform or something?"

Dan raises an eyebrow. "The Donor Relief Act that's going to win us the 2018 election?"

Jon shrugs. "The Russia stuff, if you'd rather. Just something that's a little sunnier."

"You have a sick mind, you know that?"

Jon waves his hand for another round. "Many people have told me that, yes."

***

By Friday, Lovett's cold hasn't lessoned much and Jon's has taken hold. So, while Lovett hops himself up on DayQuil, Jon sends Tommy and Hanna to the Hollywood Improv alone and curls on his couch with Viceland's Roy Moore voters' panel and a bottle of cough syrup.

He falls asleep weighing the possibility of winning a fucking election in Alabama for the first time in his lifetime with the possibility of sending a known child molester to the Senate. He wakes up on the couch an indeterminate amount of hours later, when Leo licks his face, his back legs wobbling a little as he begs to be let out. Jon rolls off the couch, his head swimming as he stands. He only lasts long enough to fill Leo's food bowl and open the back door. It's early December and it's not exactly balmy out, but he leaves the door open wide enough for Leo's body and heads back to the couch.

He's not actually sure how much time passes before he hears the sound of a key in the door and the jangle of Lucca's collar. Leo's relaxing under the coffee table, chewing passively on his ball, when a brunette blur beelines towards him. He clamps his jaws around the ball, but otherwise is a good sport about Lucca climbing over him and lying like a pancake across his back.

Tommy stops at the edge of the living room, eyeing the mountain of used Kleenex and empty cough drop wrappers on the coffee table. He holds up a paper bag. "Hanna sent me over with supplies, which is a good thing, I see. You're a fucking mess."

"I hate being sick," Jon moans, wrapping his blanket tightly around himself as he struggles off the couch.

Tommy steps into the kitchen, dropping the bag on the table and digging through the cupboards for a couple of bowls.

Jon struggles onto a bar stool, pulling the blanket so the only bare part of him are his watery eyes and his red, itchy nose. He's sure he look as absolutely pathetic as he feels.

Tommy rolls his eyes when he turns back around, pulling the bag towards him. "A thermometer. You might wanna use that," Tommy says, as he pulls it out and drops it on the counter. "Some NyQuil, although, judging by your eyes, you're set on that front. A few magazines." Tommy frowns at the covers, then shrugs. "People. GQ. I think these are just things Hanna's already read, but- Anyway, you can read them while you eat these cookies."

"Gingerbread?" Jon asks, brightening enough that a cough forces its way through his chest.

"Yeah. Your favorite."

"Hanna's a godsend. Remind me to send her some ProFlowers when I'm feeling well enough to look at a screen again. You know the worst part of being sick?"

"Having to stay off Twitter?"

"Having to stay off Twitter," Jon nods. He watches as Tommy pulls out the last item, a large container half-full of Matzah Ball soup, with a label - "Wexler's? You went all the way to Santa Monica? Jeez, Tommy, all you had to do is ask me to marry you and I would have said yes. No need to go through so much trouble" - on the side.

"I didn't." Tommy looks down, studiously doling out the soup into two equal portions, then turning his back so he can reach the microwave.

"Ahh." Jon's had a pounding fever headache since at least a day ago, and he rubs at his forehead, taking the opportunity to also blow his nose. "Okay?"

Tommy's back bunches under his hoodie and he grips the edge of the counter. "This is fucking ridiculous. I'm sick of-" He turns around, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. "Lovett - idiot that he is - took a Lyft all the way there and back. Hanna made him a care package, too, and I stopped by there first. He ate half and asked me to bring you the rest."

Jon's brain skips over the latter half and focuses on, "Matzah ball soup is Jewish comfort food. His mom used to make it for him all the time, when he was sick."

"Yeah," Tommy says, slowly. "You're not the only one who's a fucking disaster right now, cold not-withstanding."

Jon tries to pulls his hand out of the blanket again so he can waggle it at Tommy, but gives up and hopes the sentiment comes through his eyes. "You're next, buddy. We share an office."

"Maybe." The microwave beeps and Tommy turns around to switch out the bowls, setting it again. When he turns back to Jon, the set of his entire body is determined. "But I've been sleeping and eating fine over the past few weeks, unlike you heartbroken assholes. My immune system is just fine."

Jon's brain stutters. He has a fever and his head is pounding, but- "Tommy?"

"Yeah." Tommy pulls the second bowl out of the microwaves and carries them both, carefully, to the kitchen island, artfully stepping over Lucca as she races through the kitchen after Leo. "Hey, slow down," he calls, to no avail, then laughs. He pushes a bowl and spoon towards Jon, sitting on a stool across from him and picking up his own spoon, and fiddling with it. "I'm, ahh, stepping off the bench."

"You've-" Jon swallows. "You've been on the bench?"

Tommy rolls his eyes, ducking his spoon into his soup and blowing on it. "What, you thought I was in the dugout?"

"The parking lot," Jon admits. "The parking lot at, like, the mall halfway across town, getting your ears pierced at Claire's with your girlfriends, with no idea that there even was a game today."

Tommy frowns, offended. "I know I went to a preppy high school, but what exactly do you think my experience was like?"

Jon shrugs. "I don't know what you do in your free time."

"Yeah, but, see, that's the thing. You do. You know every mundane detail of my wasp-y life, and the fact that you thought I didn't-" Tommy shakes his head. 

Disappointing Tommy is like every bad comment on his speeches that Jon overheard in DC's breakfast spots and that time his dad caught him smoking weed in the tree house, all rolled into one. Jon's chest aches around the phlegm and the debilitating cough.

"At least Lovett has the fucking self-awareness to apologize," Tommy finishes.

"He-" Jon coughs, clearing his throat. "Lovett knows? That you know?"

Tommy nods, but does clarify, "I didn't tell him," between bites of soup. "He has taken it as an opening to fucking talk to me about it, though. I kinda preferred your naivety, honestly."

"He talked to you? About me?" Jon asks, before he can help himself.

"Nope." Tommy shakes his head definitively. "Nope, this is why I never wanted to have this conversation. I am not going to ask his friends to ask him if he'd like to ask your friends if you'd like to go to the dance. I am not going to tell you what he wrote in his diary. I am not going to pass him a Lisa Frank sticker in class."

Jon grins. "You did go to the kind of high school that trades in Lisa Frank stickers and Claire's gift cards. I knew it."

Tommy glares into his soup. "Maybe."

"I do know you," Jon says, as softly as he can with his throat scratchy and rough. "And I'm sorry I didn't realize that you knew. You're right, I should have."

Tommy shrugs. "I didn't want to know. I thought- there were signs, for months, and I ignored them until- Look, in your defense, you're so fucking gone on him that I don't think you have a clue how unsubtle you are."

Jon shakes his head.

"And I didn't say anything, either. I didn't want to get involved. This isn't my thing."

"It is, a little," Jon says, remembering his conversation with Dan all the way back in May. "You're our closest friend. We're partners."

"Yeah." Tommy puts his spoon down, pillowing his head on his hands. "That's why- I still don't want to be involved. Not in this part. If you wanna invite me to your housewarming party, I'll show up with bells on and a whole case of celebratory champagne, but-"

"There's not going to be a housewarming party."

"I'm not passing notes, but, just, I wouldn't be so sure of that." Tommy claps his hands together. Lucca comes running at the sound, and he slides off the stool so he can pick her up. She squirms in his hands, straining to reach his empty bowl so she can lick it clean. Jon's gonna have to remember to clean his counter when they're gone. "You're both so fucking miserable. As your friend and as a third stakeholder in this media company that could be really fucking great if we just give it the time it needs, I really need you to fix this."

"Okay," Jon nods, quietly.

"Okay," Tommy nods, dropping Lucca back onto the floor before she can reach Jon's still-full bowl. "Now the only other thing I need is a fucking win in Alabama."

"Yeah," Jon chuckles. "I was watching CNN, when you got here. They're doing some panels on turn out and the black vote."

"We don't believe in predictions anymore."

"Sure," Jon agrees, "but it's still fun."

Tommy laughs. "You're sick, you know that? In more ways than one. Take your soup with you - you need to get something in you. And I'm sitting as far from you as I can."

Jon laughs, but he carries the soup carefully in his blanket-arms, and settles it on his chest as he lays back against the couch cushions. He picks up the spoon just as Leo joins him, curling protectively against Jon's thigh and watching Lucca distrustfully.

Tommy pulls Lucca with him into the recliner on the other side of the room and turns up the volume.

Jon eats his soup and tries not to think of the Lovett-shaped hole missing between them.

***

"This is the most important day since Trump won the Presidency," Lovett exclaims as he pushes back into the office, two trays of iced Starbucks coffees in his hands, Pundit's leash looped precariously around his wrist. "My nerves are on fire."

"Possibly not the election," Tanya notes, as he hands her a latte. "Possibly it's the third trip you've taken to Starbucks since 9 am."

"It's a hard day," Lovett argues, falling back into his seat. Pundit curls at his feet, happily worn out from her third walk. "What's happened in the thirty minutes I've been gone?"

"The CNN panel's started." Jon nods at the TV above Lovett's desk. "It's not great."

Lovett frowns. "When I left, we were all hopeful. What the hell happened?" He swivels so he can look up at the TV as he chews on his straw. Jon watches the way his throat moves, because it's the only good thing that he's seen in the last few minutes.

The screen fills up with a graphic of Alabama, broken down by county. Although most of them are still undetermined grey, way too many are red. 

Lovett makes an aggrieved noise. "So red."

"Fucking white men," Jon agrees, leaning his forearms on his desk.

The screen flashes back to the CNN Panel, the lower-third filled with a bold-lettered pronouncement about how important this election is. Over the graphic, Axe is talking about white turnout and the steep hill of political division in a state like Alabama that's difficult, maybe impossible, to climb.

The exit polls are a fucking roller coaster.

First, Dan texts Jon about the 30% African American turnout, up 5% from Doug Jones' best hopes and 2% from what even Obama got in 2012.

Then CNN announces another county in, a rural county that, despite lowest of low turnout rates, is still enough to overcome the high African American turnout.

Twitter reminds Jon that pre-election polls have Jones well within the margin of victory.

Twitter also reminds him that Trump won Alabama by 28 points.

CNN reminds the entire nation that American politics are more racially divided than other.

Dan texts again. Suburban Birmingham voters may choose to elect an alleged child molester than a moderate Democrat.

The NY Times needle swings towards "leaning" for Doug Jones, then swings wildly to "likely" for Roy Moore. Another county comes in, and it swings deep red. Another county, and it swings pale blue.

Jon drops his head into his hands. "I know this is an insensitive comment to make, but, is this what Heroine addicts feel like? I've had to pee for, like, 45 minutes, but I can't stop watching."

Tanya reaches over to pat his shoulder, gingerly.

"Go to the fucking bathroom," Lovett tells him. "I'll send you updates."

Jon goes, his heart beating wildly the whole time. He gets a WhatsApp message as he's washing his hands. _blue leaning, but just barely_. When he scrolls up, it's the first message in their private chain since October.

"Thanks." Jon stands, awkwardly, over Lovett's desk, knocking his phone against the table. "We're looking good."

"Don't even say that," Lovett accuses, but he looks up, offering a small, shy smile, before turning back to his laptop. 

Jon takes the smile back to his desk with him, so he can continue staring at the needle.

And staring.

And staring.

The race is called a couple hours later.

Elijah catapults out of his chair.

Tanya screams out, "are you fucking kidding me."

Brian claps his hands.

Jon screencaps the NYT screen so he can tweet it.

Lovett smiles, quietly to himself, then gets up, spreading his grin to the rest of the room. "There's champagne in the kitchen."

"What?" Tanya glares through her excited grin. "You were tempting fate like that?"

Lovett shrugs. "It's a little thing called hope. Someday, before you leave this company, I hope to impart a little of it onto you."

"Fuck off," Tanya says, good-naturedly. "You're lucky we fucking won, or you would have had a lot of explaining to do."

"I would have had a lot of champagne to drink, all on my own," Lovett corrects as he walks backwards towards the kitchen, Pundit following him. "But we did win, and that's all that matters. That's the beauty of hope."

Tanya throws something. Jon's pretty sure it's a tablet pen, but he's not sure.

She sighs as she turns around. "He's not gonna remember to bring cups. He's gonna expect us to drink out of the bottles like heathens."

Jon chuckles, "I'll go," and squeezes her shoulder as he passes.

Lovett's dancing a little as he grabs three big champagne bottles from the fridge, setting them on the counter.

"Hey," Jon says, quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Lovett jumps, turning around. "Sorry, I didn't mean to- Tanya sent me in to make sure you bring glasses."

Lovett motions towards the pile of red solo cups next to the champagne bottles. "Tanya should have more faith."

Jon shrugs. "I never doubted you."

Lovett looks up at him from under his glasses and the fringe of curls on his forehead. He's leaning back against the counter, his fingers gripped around the edge, his Indivisible shirt pulled tight across his chest and his shoulders. 

Everyone Jon cares about - Dan and Alyssa and his dad and Tommy - has been telling him for months that he might - maybe, possibly, improbably - have a chance. And tonight, a Democratic won a Senate race in Alabama for the first time in 25 fucking years. If that isn't proof that anything is possible, Jon doesn't know what is.

He takes a step forward, gripping the counter on either side of Lovett's hands, leaning his head down and-

Lovett stops him, his palm flat against Jon's chest. "Jon," he says, voice no more than a whisper. "We can't."

Jon drops his head, clenching his fingers around the counter. Lovett's body heat is radiating all around him as he admits, like he should have been admitting every day for the past two months, "I miss you."

"Fuck." Lovett's eyes slip closed, his lashes long and beautiful as they brush against the lenses of his glasses. "I know. I'm sorry. I'll try better, I promise. It's just- it takes everything I have just to be professional, and I know I'm not being happy enough or funny enough, I know I'm being fucking weird. But, it's so hard to even breathe when you're around and-"

He sounds absolutely devastated, and Jon's voice cracks as he tries to swallow. "Jon-"

"And you're not exactly helping," Lovett continues, his fingers tightening in Jon's shirt. "You need to give me some space, some real space, without all the looks and the puppy eyes and shit. It's not fair. It's not- I stepped away. It was the hardest thing I've ever fucking done, but I did it."

Feeling his distress, Pundit squeezes between them, pawing at Lovett's thighs and whining. Jon reaches down, automatically, to scratch at her ears, and Lovett's eyes follow him, dark and wet.

Jon can barely hear his own thoughts over the beating of his heart and the possibility blooming in his chest. "You breaking up with me was the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"Don't-" Lovett shakes his head. "I don't want your whole condescending, Jon-Favreau-hates-letting-people-down thing. It doesn't work. It's never worked. And it just makes everything so much fucking worse."

Jon flinches.

"I don't want it and I don't need it. I'll be fine. I'll- well, no, I won't get over you. I haven't in over a decade and I'm not about to now." Lovett rolls his eyes at himself. "But, I'll at least get back to the way things were. You won't have to deal with me pining all over you. Unless- Fuck, unless you can't- I'd understand. I mean, I love this company, but, this is my shit, and I'll walk away quietly if you-"

"Jon." Lovett's entire body is shaking against him and Jon reaches up, wrapping his fingers around the hand Lovett has on his chest, quieting him. "A decade?"

Lovett takes a deep, uneven breath. "Yeah. No need to tell me, I'm such a fucking cliché, I know."

"I really wish you had told me."

Lovett flinches this time, turning his chin away. "Yeah," he agrees, "it would have saved us a lot of bullshit."

"It's just-" Jon corrects him. "We've wasted an awful lot of time."

Lovett blinks, and Jon steadies himself on his feet, using his free hand to turn Lovett's face back to his.

"You're not leaving Crooked. You're not-" There's so much Jon wants to say, but he's a little dizzy with having to rewrite his entire worldview in the span of a few minutes, and there's a few things he's still stuck on, like, "you broke up with _me_."

Lovett can't duck his head with Jon's fingers under his chin, but he does cast his eyes downwards. "I knew from the moment we started that it was a bad fucking idea. I tried, God, I tried to stay away, I really did. But you're a fucking force of nature," he chuckles a little, self-deprecating and wet. "I convinced myself that getting pieces of you was better than getting none of you. And it was fine, for a while, until it wasn't. Until it was fucking torture, getting something so close to everything I wanted, but wanting more and more and more and more and- It wasn't fair to you, and it wasn't fair to me. So," he shrugs, "I stopped it."

"I don't want you to stop," Jon says, forcing his voice out around the ache in his chest. The ache for himself, the ache for Lovett, for all the things Jon hadn't allowed himself to see, because he was so wrapped up in his own self-actualized misery. "I don't want you to stop wanting things from me. I want you to want everything."

"Jon-"

"It's only fair, because I want everything from you."

"Jon-"

"Please, just, for once, please let me finish." Lovett closes his mouth and Jon shakes his head. Pundit whines next to their knees, but they both ignore her. "I wasn't lying, before. The last couple months have been the most torturous, miserable months of my life. I've missed you like crazy, which, of course I fucking did. I miss you after five fucking minutes, I don't know how I thought I was going to live without you for the rest of my life."

"Jon," Lovett says, for the third time, but it's rough and low and crackly and pushed out around a careful, dawning, awed smile.

Jon matches it. "I want everything from you, Jon Lovett. All the fucking clichés. I want you to be the first and last thing I see every day. I want you to hold my hand in airports and at Starbucks and in the car as you make me listen to the Jonas Brothers or Taylor Swift or whatever terrible pop song you're into. I want to roll my eyes and I want you to kiss me, anyway. I want you to make awkward, half-allusions to our relationship during Pro Flower ad reads. Fuck, if you're willing, I'd like you to make embarrassing, full-throttled references to our relationship in every fucking ad read you can. I want to spend Hanukkah at your parents' house and I want to put our dogs in stupid matching Christmas bows just to piss your dad off. I want to bring you to Thanksgiving, and I want to introduce you as exactly who you are."

Jon brushes his thumbs under Lovett's eyes, wiping away his tears. Lovett shakes his head. "You're still the best fucking speechwriter I've ever known."

Jon's eyes are just as wet as Lovett's. "Is it working?"

Lovett shakes his head, but when Jon drops his chin, Lovett lifts onto his toes, meeting Jon halfway. It's only been a few weeks, but everything feels new. The feel of Lovett's mouth, salty and soft and so responsive. The feel of his hands, shaking and gentle as he curls his fingers into the hair at the back of Jon's neck. The feeling of his body, loose and arching towards Jon's, like there's nowhere he'd rather be than as close to Jon as possible.

He's so focused on Lovett that he doesn't hear the door click open until Tanya says, "Are you guys drinking all the champagne without us? It's taken you, like, half an hour- Oh. Oh, thank fucking god."

Lovett pulls away, dropping his forehead to Jon's chest and groaning.

Jon laughs, wrapping an arm around Lovett's back and kneading his shoulder blade. "We pulled out the champagne, but it might be a little warm."

"Oh, who fucking cares?" She laughs. "I'm just so- Shit, this was a good day before, but now- We're starting the live stream in a few minutes. Bring the Champagne with you? We have so much too= celebrate, now."

She backs out of the kitchen, and Jon waits for the door to click shut again before he drops his head to Lovett's shoulder, his whole body shaking with laughter.

"Fuck."

Lovett eases back, his smile dropping, a little, as he asks, "I, ahh, know you said all those things about wanting to be out and all, but, if you don't want, we can-"

"No," Jon cuts him off, dropping his hands to Lovett's hips and holding him tightly. "I meant everything I said. I want to shout it from the fucking roof tops. If you're amenable?"

"We can talk about it. I'm sort of partial to sky writing?" There's still a trace of insecurity in the way he jokes about it, but Jon has every intention of spending the next sixty years convincing him of how unnecessary that is. 

Jon bends to kiss him again, just a little, just enough to remind himself that he can do this now. As much as he wants. "We, ahh, have this live stream. And, like, a company waiting for us. But, afterwards, will you come home with me?"

Pundit barks, then butts her head against Lovett's shin. Lovett looks down at her. "Pundit thinks that's a great idea. Or she has to go to the bathroom, it's kinda hard to tell."

Lovett spends another moment tracing Jon's neck with his fingers, ensuring that Jon will be nothing but distracted during this live stream, before pulling back and grabbing Pundit's leash.

"I'm gonna take her out quickly. Do you wanna-?"

"Yeah." Jon steps aside. "Let me grab Leo."

Jon's not entirely sure how he gets through the walk, and the live stream is a blur he'll never remember, except for the way Lovett's knee pressed against his for the entire 25 minutes. The moment it's over, he grabs Leo, waves goodbye to the crew, and is out the door before Elijah's even finished uploading the dog videos to Instagram.

Lovett laughs at him as he climbs into the passenger seat of Jon's convertible, sitting sideways in his seat with the dogs piled in his lap. He reaches out, burying his foot under Jon's thigh, and Jon drives one-handed, the other wrapped around Lovett's ankle. 

"Do you think they'll notice how distracted you were?" Lovett asks, wiggling his toes under Jon's thigh.

Jon groans. "The fans or our employees?"

"The fans." Lovett runs his fingers through Leo's fur. "Our employees already know. Tanya can't keep a secret to save her fucking life."

"I don't know, this is a big one. Maybe-"

"Brian and Elijah both congratulated me. So, yeah, everyone knows." Lovett tilts his head. "Well, except for Tommy. Serves him right for spending an entire day in a prison without phone access."

"Shit, Tommy." Jon slips his fingers under Lovett's jeans, trailing them over bare skin. "Do you think we should, I don't know, go over there?"

"I think you should get me naked as soon as possible." Lovett pulls his foot out of Jon's grasp, sliding down in his seat so he can rub it between Jon's legs to punctuate his point. "We can tell Tommy tomorrow."

Jon groans.

Lovett points his toes, pressing harder into Jon's growing erection. "I'll text him to come over for breakfast. Unless you want to?"

Jon grunts, running a borderline red light. "You can't possibly expect me to drive and text right now."

"Yeah, you're right, I'll do it." Lovett shifts so he can pull his phone out of his back pocket. He types out a text, holding the phone over their dogs, as he continues to move his foot rhythmically in Jon's lap.

Jon's pretty sure he takes the turn into their neighborhood at race car speed, but he doesn't care. He doesn't really care about much besides pulling into Lovett's driveway and getting all of them inside so he can close the door and push Lovett up against it. 

Lovett laughs a little breathlessly, reaching up to steady himself, hands clenching around Jon's shoulders and using them to pull himself up. Their noses bump in their hurry, and Lovett's still laughing as he tilts his head, letting Jon swallow it, hot and warm and bubbling with everything Jon's been wanting him to say. Not just in the past few weeks, but in all the months since they started this, when every kiss was tinged with just that little edge of certainty that, now, Jon hopes to wash away.

Lovett twists his fingers into the soft fabric of Jon's oldest Pod Save America shirt, swaying forward, pushing their chests together and his knee between Jon's. He's needy, his tongue fast and warm, teasing over Jon's teeth, diving into his mouth, asking for all the things he's been too scared, Jon realizes, to ask for before and demanding answers that Jon's always been willing to give, if he'd just known they were being asked.

Jon's dick presses against the hard metal of his zipper, and he pulls back, burying his ragged breath in Lovett's neck. "Bedroom? Please?"

Lovett trails his fingernails over Jon's back, catching in the fabric as he murmurs, "yes, yes, please," just as brokenly as Jon.

Jon can't stop touching him, never wants to stop touching him, and he backs them through Lovett's house by rote, focused, instead, on the warmth of Lovett's skin under his hands, the way it flushes as Jon uncovers it, betraying everything Jon's ever wanted to know about how much Lovett wants him. Jon's not sure how's he's missed all the signs, the way Lovett pushes towards him, the way Lovett breathes into his skin, the way Lovett reaches for him, like he can't bare for Jon to be more than a few inches away.

Jon will never take them for granted again.

He keeps the dogs out with his foot, apologizing with his eyes as he shuts the bedroom door in their wide, sad faces.

"They'll get over it," Lovett says, as he toes off his shoes and flicks open the button on his jeans. "I won't get over dying if you don't touch me right the fuck now."

Jon sucks in a breath, and reaches for the hem of his shirt.

He joins Lovett on his bed, holding himself up with one arm as he pulls Lovett to him, leaning forward to pull Lovett's bottom lip between his teeth. Lovett groans, arching his hips forward, his erection bumping against Jon's and, fuck, Jon can't possibly be expected to last after weeks without this, can he?

He trails his free hand down Lovett's spine, before slipping under the waist band of Lovett's briefs and continuing his trail. He spreads his palm, holding as much of Lovett as he can between his fingers, as he runs his middle finger down Lovett's crack. "Can I?" He asks, pausing with his middle finger pressing gently against Lovett's ass.

Lovett arches forward, his mouth open and slack against Jon's as he fights for air. "Please."

"Thank fucking god," Jon's voice cracks, and he shifts, dropping his shoulder so he has more room to maneuver. Lovett is tighter, tighter than he was just a couple months ago, and Jon's finger stutters over the thought that maybe Lovett's been as celibate as he's been.

"Fuck, that feels good. Your fingers - Jon, Jon," Lovett keens, dropping his forehead to Jon's shoulder as he mirrors the rhythm of Jon's finger with his hips. "You have no idea how distracting it's been the last few weeks, staring at your hands and remembering what they feel like, just like this. You have no fucking idea how much you use them to talk."

"Do I?" Jon asks, innocently, as he adds his index finger.

"Shit." Lovett bites into the crook of Jon's neck, urging a bruise from Jon's skin high enough that he knows Jon won't be able to cover it with his normal neckline. Jon's dick twitches, spilling precome into his briefs and Lovett reaches down, tracing his finger over Jon's length, watching, fascinated, as Jon leaps towards him. "Wow, that's a fucking lot."

"It's not like I've been quiet about how attracted I am to you," Jon mutters, as he rolls them over, pulling both their briefs to the floor in the same motion. He reaches towards the bedside table, pulling out the bottle of lube and spurting it across his fingers. He slips them back into Lovett's body, and Lovett arches into him. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever met," Jon continues, watching as Lovett's body flushes, spreading from cheeks to neck, to his upper chest. "All you have to do is enter the fucking room and I'm hard. Live shows haven't been great, I gotta tell you." Lovett chuckles, arching even closer, his flush spreading down his chest and his upper arms. "Your mouth- the things you do when you talk- your intelligence spilling forth like-" 

Lovett stretches so that he can reach the lube, and Jon has to stop speaking as he watches Lovett's body move. Lovett grabs the bottle, squirting some into his palm, then pausing. "What?"

Jon shakes his head. "You have no fucking idea what you do to me."

"Don't be ridiculous." Lovett scoffs, closing his fist around Jon's dick and pumping him a few times, until he's covered. "Do you, like, look at yourself? You're ridiculously handsome. It's embarrassing sharing a fucking stage with you, none-the-less a bed."

"We'll agree to disagree," Jon says, magnanimously, although mostly because he has to move this along or it's going to be over before it starts. He leans forward, pulling Lovett's thigh over his, and whispering into his ear, "it doesn't matter, anyway. I have the rest of my life to convince you, and I like a challenge."

Lovett's dick twitches against his stomach.

Jon pulls his fingers out and wraps them around Lovett. "You like that, huh? The idea of a challenge? Or the idea of a lifetime?"

Lovett's dick twitches again, and Lovett turns his head, closing his eyes against Jon's bicep.

"If I haven't been clear," Jon tells him, placing soft, gentle kisses around the ear Lovett's showing him, all pale, soft, vulnerable skin. "I am so fucking in love with you. This is it for me. I plan on doing this, being right here, for the rest of our fucking lives. If you'll have me?"

Lovett squeezes his eyes even tighter for a moment, and when he opens them, they're a little wet around the edges. He lifts his hips, spreading them around Jon's knees, urging him forward as he whispers, "I'm dreaming, this is a dream, you're so fucking ridiculous."

Jon pushes forward, fast enough to be just this side of painful, just enough to remind Lovett that he isn't dreaming, that this is real, that Jon is here, and will be here, until Lovett kicks him the fuck out.

"Oh god," Lovett's back lifts off the bed, pushing closer, reaching for Jon's mouth. Jon kisses him, salty and breathless, takes everything Lovett will give him. "Fuck," Lovett murmurs against Jon's mouth. "Move- Fucking move. I need to feel you. I need you to remind me- I need to know it's okay to-"

Jon pulls his hips back, then pushes forward again, no more carefully.

Lovett digs his fingernails into Jon's back. "Yeah, shit, you feel so good. I- I'll- Fuck." Lovett kisses Jon again, wildly, desperately, breathing out, so low that Jon can barely hear him, "I'll loved you for so long- I'll love you for as long as you'll let me, and probably after that, too."

Jon shakes his head, "not gonna be a problem," and reaches down, wrapping Lovett's dick in his fist.

It's already hard and leaking between their chests, and Jon matches their hips to the pumping of his hand. He can tell when Lovett's close, in the wetness against his hand and the way Lovett's body tightens instinctively around Jon's dick. Jon twists his fist, pushes as far forward as he can, and kisses Lovett through the crash of both their orgasms.

He's not sure how much time passes, but the next thing he's aware of is Lovett leaning over him, his hands gentle on Jon's chest, a stream of something Jon doesn't have the brain power to process spilling out of his mouth.

"Hey." Lovett grins, leaning forward to kiss him. "You're back with me."

"You killed me," Jon accuses, sinking back into the cushions and closing his eyes.

"I'm just gonna let the dogs in," Lovett says, and Jon feels the mattress dip. He groans a little, placing a hand on the small of his back. "Fuck, I'm gonna have a hard time sitting down tomorrow."

Jon chuckles and moves just far enough to grab the blankets. He pulls them up as Lovett slides back in beside him, curling against his chest. Pundit circles for a moment, then settles into the crook of Lovett's knees. Leo curls himself around her.

Lovett looks at the dogs for a long moment, then turns back to Jon, pressing a kiss to Jon's chest. "Hey," he murmurs against Jon's skin. "I meant what I said. Every bit of it."

Jon's chest aches, and he pulls Lovett closer. "I meant what I said, too. I am so in love with you, I can't see straight, most days."

Lovett grins. "Tell me again."

"You're such a fucking monster." Jon closes his eyes. "But I'll tell you as often as you'll let me."

Lovett hums contentedly against his chest.

***

"Hey, lovebirds, you're gonna be late to your own party," Tanya calls through the bathroom door at the Improv. "Which would be fine if you weren't, you know, also the hosts."

Lovett laughs, calling back, "we'll be out in a minute. We're just trying to figure out if this is respectable enough to wear in public."

"If you have to ask the question, the answer is 'no'." Jon can tell she's rolling her eyes, even through the door. "You're on stage in 5 and I'm not pushing it anymore."

Lovett glances back at Jon, sticking his foot out and trying to peer down his back. He sighs. "I think she's right. If I'm even questioning it-"

"Oh, I'm not saying you should wear it on stage. I wouldn't be responsible for my actions if you did." Jon squeezes Lovett's dick, which is almost entirely on display through the cheap fabric of the Hanukkah romper.

Lovett's shoulders slump. "I was just so excited that they made a Hanukkah version."

"Well, it won't go to waste," Jon argues. "You can wear it tonight, just, like, in the privacy of our bedroom." He still gets a little thrill at being able to say that and, judging by the way Lovett pushes into his hand, he does too.

"Fuck, fuck, okay. I can't go on stage with a fucking woodie." He pulls out of Jon's hand and unzips the romper. He steps out of it and into his favorite maroon pants. He jumps a little, sucking in his stomach so he can do them up. 

"Kinda wish I wasn't going on stage in a few minutes, too, 'cause that ship's sailed," Jon bemoans.

Lovett pauses, looking up under his eyelashes as Jon rearranges the bulge in his pants. Lovett's entire face flushes, as if he isn't intimately acquainted with the effect he has on Jon's body.

Jon pushes Lovett's moose-menorah shirt into his hands and settles the god-awful Santa Claus baseball hat low over Lovett's ears. He steps back, tilting his head. "There. Problem solved, I'm good to go now."

Lovett gapes, twisting on his heels so he can adjust the hat in the mirror. "Is it that bad? It's not- I'm being nondenominational - multi-denominational? - and I need to do something to cover up this mess." He futzes with the flop of curls on the top of his head and runs his hand over the sheered sides, then puts the hat back on. "I may need a new barber."

"I know a guy," Jon offers.

"You're supposed to tell me that it's not that bad," Lovett complains as he gathers up the romper and shoves it into his backpack. "Not that my new haircut's is a boner-killer. You're the worst fucking boyfriend."

Jon's stomach flips. "Oh, this was one of those times where I'm supposed to lie to you?"

"Obviously."

"Got it." Jon promises, reaching for Lovett's hips and pulling him close enough to feel that the outfit hasn't entirely softened him. "I'll do better next time."

Tanya knocks on the door again. "It's been 8 minutes now. We've started the theme music and I'm not going anywhere until you come out of there."

Jon chuckles and steps back, reaching for the door knob. "We're ready."

"Thank god." She raises an eyebrow. "No romper?"

"The romper's gonna be more of an in-private kinda thing," Lovett says, easily, as he shoves his backpack at Tanya and jogs out on stage.

Jon chokes. 

Tommy pats his back sympathetically. "You wanted this."

"Yeah," Jon grins, his face burning. "I really did."

Jon and Tommy are called onto the stage a few minutes later for a Trump Administration competition of Guess Who? that Tommy wins by a mile. Which is - as they have their year-end company founders' speech riding on it - not only embarrassing but exceedingly costly.

"Do you have anything written?" Lovett asks, later, as they're driving back to the office after the show. "I'm expecting, like, State of the Union level speech, here."

"You're gonna be blow away," Jon promises, reaching over to squeeze Lovett's knee.

Lovett twists so he can share a raised eyebrow with Tommy in the backseat, pushing his knee further into Jon's hand. "He doesn't have anything written," he faux-whispers.

"No shit." Tommy chuckles. "Overconfident asshole."

"I am not," Jon argues, then deflates as he pulls into the parking lot. They can see the windows of their office, lit up with Christmas lights and a fake plastic Menorah, a slew of people already visible through the glass. "Okay, I was a little overconfident."

Lovett laughs, squeezing Jon's arm. "I'll help," he promises.

His version of help turns out to be a coordinated effort to get Jon loose before he goes on stage through a steady stream of rum and cokes and this horrible holiday punch that he blames on Elijah but almost definitely had a hand in.

Jon is, at least, pretty buzzed by the time he takes the stage. "We were gonna draw straws to determine which of the three of us has to stand up here and give this speech," he starts, "but what's the fun in that?" Everyone laughs. Jon shakes his shoulders out a little. "So, instead, we made a little competition out of it and Tommy knows a truly embarrassing amount of inane facts about Trump's ousted advisors, so here I am. Hat's off to Tommy."

Tommy raises his glass.

"I'm not gonna make this too long-winded." The crowd groans, and Jon drops his chin, chuckling. "Or, I'm going to try not to.

"Almost exactly a year ago, Jon, Tommy, and I walked into the WeHo branch of Bank of America with a hundred dollar bill and a great name for a company. We never, in our wildest imaginations, thought that we'd be here tonight, with the best fans in the world and the best staff we could have ever asked for."

"Hyperbole," someone heckles, from the back. 'Andy,' Lovett mouths, from the corner of the stage, and Jon laughs.

"Just for that, you get to play Santa Clause at mom's Christmas Eve party," Jon calls back.

"Wait," Lovett glances from Andy to Jon, "there was a Santa Clause costume up for grabs here?"

Jon waggles his eyebrows. "You interested?"

Lovett shrugs. "We'll talk about it."

Jon's sure he blushes hard enough for the entire room to see, but he can't bring himself to care a whole lot. Just a few days ago, he was settled in for a lifetime of pining. Now, Lovett has a ticket to fly home to Boston with him on Tuesday and is heckling him about family traditions in front of their entire staff. Jon grins. "Anyway, you all - well, most of you - left important, high-paying jobs to come work for us, and that trust isn't something we take lightly. 

"I have a lot more I could say, but, just to prove you all wrong, I'm going to leave it there. There's a lot more alcohol, so, please, drink more. And don't forget to take your gift bags before you leave- Lovett spent a lot of time creating the fortune cookies, so he'll be sad if you don't take them. Otherwise, thank you all for a wonderful year. Happy Holidays. To an even better 2018, all that shit." He holds up his glass, waiting for everyone to do the same, then takes a long drink.

Lovett helps him down from the stage. "So, about this Santa Clause outfit-"

Jon wraps an arm around his shoulders. "It's yours if you want it. You'll make Andy's day."

"Oh, I don't want to wear it." Lovett frowns. "I'm Jewish, remember?"

"As if you ever let me forget," Jon rolls his eyes. "But then why were you asking about-? Oh. Oh." The eye roll turns into a raised eyebrow. "Really?"

Lovett shrugs. "Maybe."

"If you're really into it, I can probably sneak it away from Andy at the end of the night."

Lovett purses his lips thoughtfully.

Tommy pushes through the crowd, three fresh drinks in his hands. He passes them out when he gets close enough. "So, it wasn't the St. Crispin's Day speech, but you didn't embarrass us, so-"

Jon laughs. "It was a harsh crowd."

"Yeah." Tommy shuffles on his feet, his eyes dropping a little as he shifts closer. "So, I, ahh, don't want to bring, like, seriousness to a holiday party-"

"The Pod Save the World of holiday speeches," Lovett crows.

Jon pinches his shoulder. "We love your earnestness, Tom. Go ahead."

Tommy grins at them. "All I wanted to say is that, I know this has been the hardest fucking year, in innumerable ways that we'll still be unpacking decades from now. Despite that, though, it's somehow been the best year of my life, both personally and professionally. Coming here, every single day, to work with you both to make this crazy, important thing- It's incredible. And I have both of you to thank for that."

"I can second that," Jon says, his voice a little wobblier than he expected it to be. He feels Lovett slip his hand under Jon's shirt, hooking his finger into Jon's belt loop and drawing warm, comforting circles in the small of his back.

"Yeah," Lovett breathes, "me too."

Tommy smiles at them, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Also, I know I haven't been the most supportive of this," he motions at the lack of space between their bodies, "but it's not because I didn't want it to happen. I was just so worried that you were going to fuck up the best thing you have going for you. We've all known for years that this would work, and it's been both the most frustrating and most rewarding experience to watch you fumble through it. And now that you've worked all your shit out, I can finally tell you happy I am for you."

Lovett rests his head on Jon's shoulder, struggling to swallow as he says, roughly, "thanks, Tommy."

"What the fuck's going on over here?" Ira asks, pushing into their circle with a sprig of mistletoe held high over his head. "This little circle is way too serious for a holiday party."

Lovett chuckles, wiping surreptitiously at his eyes as he lifts his head from Jon's shoulder. "Fuck off. It's a founder's thing, which you wouldn't understand."

"And thank god. I don't need that kind of responsibility." Ira waggles the mistletoe. "I just need to show up and look fabulous."

"How do I get that job?" Lovett asks.

"Any time you want to shut up and look pretty, just let us know," Tommy deadpans. "I think we can work something out."

Lovett squints at him. "I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to be offended by that? I feel like there's a backhanded compliment in there somewhere, but I can't tell."

Jon laughs and, as Ira shakes the mistletoe for a third time, turns so he can kiss the confusion off Lovett's face. He feels Lovett's hands clench, automatically, around his neck, and he squeezes Lovett's hips, pulling him as close as he can get. He adds a little tongue, just for the effect.

When he pulls back, Lovett is flushed, his mouth slack as he tries to make a noise. Jon chuckles, stepping back, but Lovett tightens his hands on Jon's shoulders. "You can't leave me to support why own weight, here. What are you, crazy?" 

Jon chuckles, keeping his hands on Lovett's hips and resting his cheek on the top of Lovett's stupid baseball-slash-Santa hat.

"Perfect," Elijah mutters, from just outside their circle.

Lovett's head jerks up, and he reaches back, pulling Elijah's phone from his hands. "Don't fucking post that. That's not- Jesus."

Elijah shrugs. "It's the content your fans want to see."

"They want to see our dogs, not indecent mistletoe kisses that should really be kept in the privacy of our own home," Lovett grumbles, glaring over Elijah's phone at Jon. Before he deletes the video, though, he sends it to his own WhatsApp. "What?" He asks, when he catches Jon looking. "Just cause it's not for public consumption doesn't mean I don't want to be able to watch it in private."

"Fucking monster," Jon shakes his head.

"Mmm." Lovett deletes the video, then hands the phone back to Elijah. "You love me, though. Despite? Because of?"

"Despite," Jon clarifies. "Definitely despite."

Tommy laughs. "I know I said 2017 was the best fucking year of my life, but if this is any indication, 2018's gonna give it a run for its money."

"Of course 2018 is going to be better," Lovett scoffs. "We're gonna take our fucking country back in 2018."

Jon presses a kiss to the top of Jon's head. He can't disagree with either of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come say hello and chat with me about these ridiculous boys. You can find me on tumblr as [stainyourhands](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/).
> 
> All comments and kudos are loved and cherished lots <3


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